In a great city hospital
There lay poor Mary Crosby small,
She had no friends her heart to cheer,
So time with her passed sad and drear.
She sought for ease but all in vain,
Month after month she passed in pain,
She had no relative nor friend
Who aid or comfort could her lend.
A surgeon saw her cheerless state,
And deplored the poor child’s fate,
She tried to make doll of her finger,
And sang to it poor little singer.
Hers indeed was an awful lot,
The weary days she spent in cot,
For the poor child she could not walk,
And it soon exhausted her to talk.
But surgeon bought her ribbon gay,
And with it she all day did play,
The giver often she did bless,
And thought sometimes she was princess.
For in it she did take such pride,
She fancied she was beauteous bride,
And was possessed of great riches,
Or thought herself a wealthy Duchess.
And she would bind it round her hair,
Imagining that she was fair.
But poor child feels that she must die,
She asks the surgeon to come nigh.
And kindly o’er her he doth stand,
She asked him for to take her hand,
Thanked him for ribbon green and blue,
Then evermore bade him adieu.