Mary in her hand has sixpence,
Mary starts to fetch some butter,
Mary's pinafore is spotless,
Off she goes across the gutter,
Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did,
Proud to be so largely trusted.
One, two, three, small steps she's taken,
Blissfully away she's tripping,
When good lack, and who'd a thought it,
Down goes Mary, slipping, slipping;
Daubs her clothes, the little slut—her
Sixpence, too, rolls in the gutter.
Never creep back so despairing,
Dry those eyes, my little Mary,
All of us start off in high glee,
Many come back quite "contrairy"—
I've mourn'd sixpences in scores too,
Damag'd hopes and pinafores too.