Sister Martha said to me: “Tie your hair with bows,
Oh, the way it flies about, when the least wind blows!”
Sister Martha fluttered by, in her primrose gown,
She’s the very neatest girl, people say, in town.
Green and gold the garden lay, set with summer flowers,
Sweetly pink and white they grew, fresh from morning showers;
Martha took her sewing there; underneath the tree
Quiet in the shade she sat, sewing daintily.
Just perhaps when I am old, old as Martha looks,
I will sew on lacy clothes, read love-story books;
Now, behind the goblin bush, where I cannot show,
I ruffle up my windy hair, and pity Martha so!