She turns in her despair to Kent,
And tries her 'prentice hand at hopping.
Now girls whom you would scarce believe
Would not turn up their nose at soiling
Their dainty hands, to dewy eve
From early morn keep ever toiling.
There's ETHEL of the golden hair
Who flutters through existence gaily
(Her father is a millionnaire),
Hops hard and does her twelve hours daily.