"'^’ELL, once I was a little girl, 
A-dwelling far away; 
My mother made the butter, 
And my father made the hay. 
And I—I wandered, out of school, 
Amid the woodlands wild, 
And scorned the teacher’s measured rule— 
A harum-scarum child. 
Of thorny lane, and meadow fair, 
My frock bore token still; 
The wind would catch my yellow hair, 
And braid it at its will. 
The sun was busy with my face— 
And still it shows it some; 
And, on my neck, I know how high 
My dresses used to come 
