“Now, don’t you think you’ll blush to own,
When you become a woman grown,
Without one good excuse to plead,
That you have never learned to read?"
“Oh, dear mamma,” said Mary then,
“Do let me have my books again;
I’ll not fret any more indeed,
If you will let me learn to read.”
Maria had an aunt at Leeds,
For whom she made a purse of beads;
’Twas neatly done, by all allow’d,
And praise soon made her vain and proud.
Her mother, willing to repress
This strong conceit of cleverness,
Said, “I will show you, if you please,
A honeycomb, the work of bees!
“Yes, look within their hive, and then
Examine well your purse again;
Compare your merits, and you will
Admit the insect’s greater skill.”
Knit, Dorothy, knit,
The sunbeams round thee flit,
So merry the minutes go by, go by,
While fast thy fingers fly, they fly.
Knit, Dorothy, knit.
Sing, Dorothy, sing,
The birds are on the wing,
’Tis better to sing than to sigh, to sigh,
While fast thy fingers fly, they fly.
Sing, Dorothy, sing.