The Little Maid





The Little Maid



A little maid went to market,
She went into the town,
And all the things she had to buy
She carefully wrote down.

The coffee, sugar, tea, and rice—
The currant cake for tea,
And then she had to reckon up,
And see how much they'd be.

She sat her down as she came back,
She sat her down to see
What they had cost—the currant cake,
The coffee, and the tea.

She could not make her money right,
And yet, how she did try!
She could not make her money right,
And oh! how she did cry.

She's counting still, my dears, my dears,
She's counting day and night,
But though she counts for years and years,
She'll never make it right.

She'll never make it right—right—right,
Oh! never any more,
Though she sits counting—count—count—count,
Till she is ninety-four.




The Little Maid



There is a sweet maiden asleep by the sea,
Her lips are as red as a cherry;
The roses are resting upon her brown cheeks—
Her cheeks that are brown as a berry.

She's tired of building up castles of sand,
Her hands they are gritty and grubby;
Her shoes, they are wet, and her legs, they are bare,
Her legs that are sturdy and chubby.

I'll wrap a shawl round you, my dear little maid,
To keep the wind off you completely,
And soft I will sing you a lullaby song,
And soon you will slumber most sweetly.





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