When First I Slipt My Leading Strings

When first I slipt my leading strings—to please my little Poll, My mother bot me at the fair a pretty waxen doll, Such sloe black eyes and cherry cheeks, the smiling dear possest, How could I kiss it oft enough, or hug it to my breast.

No sooner I could prattle it, as forward misses do, Than how I long'd and sigh'd to hear my dolly prattle too; I curl'd her hair in ringlets neat, and dress'd her very gay, And yet the sulky hussey, not a syllable would say. Provok'd that to my questions kind, no answer I could get, I shook the little hussey well, and whip'd her in a pet; My mother cry'd, Oh, fie upon't—pray let your doll alone, If e'er you wish to have a pretty baby of your own.

My head on this I blidled up, and threw the plaything by, Altho my sister snubb'd me for't—I knew the reason why— I fancy she would wish to keep the sweethearts all her own, But that she shan't, depend upon't—when I'm a woman grown.