OUR Mary is a cheerful girl,
And dearly loves to play;
No one can more enjoy the sport
When comes a holiday.
But works as well as any lass,
With strength and with a will;
A heavy load she often brings
Of flour from the mill.
The cows she milks, and to the pond
Or meadow leads them out,
And never have I yet beheld
A black look or a pout.
And she is thoughtful too—not sad—
As in the picture seen,
She pauses with her hoop and stick,
Against the wall to lean.
The pigeons hop about her feet,
And some are on the wing:
The birds around are all in glee,
And chirp, and coo, and sing.
Her God it is who made them all,
But loves her most, she knows;
He gave His Son to die, and she
Is saved from endless woes.