For a little Girl that did not like to be washed.

What! cry when I wash you, not love to be clean!

There, go and be dirty, unfit to be seen:

And till you leave off, and I see you have smiled,

I’ll not take the trouble to wash such a child.

Suppose I should leave you now, just as you are,

Do you think you’d deserve a sweet kiss from papa,

Or to sit on his knee and learn pretty great A,

With fingers that have not been wash’d all the day?

Ay, look at your fingers, you see it is so:

Did you ever behold such a black little row?

And for once you may look at yourself in the glass:

There’s a face, to belong to a good little lass!

Come, come then, I see you’re beginning to clear,

You won’t be so foolish again, will you, dear?