She was playing and turning, until her poor head
Fell against the hard door, and it very much bled,
And I heard Dr. Camomile tell,
That he put on a plaster, and covered it up,
Then he gave her some tea, that was bitter to sup,
Or perhaps it had never been well.
NEAT LITTLE CLARA.
Little Clara, come away,
Little Clara, come and play;
Leave your work, Maria’s here,
So come and play with me, my dear.
I will come, and very soon,
For I always play at noon,
But must put my work away,
Ere with you I come and play.
First my bodkin I must place
With my needle in their case;
I like to put them by with care
And then I always find them there.
There’s my cotton, there’s my thread,
Thimble in its little bed;
All is safe—my box I lock,
Now I come—’tis twelve o’clock.