Dear me! what signifies a pin,
Wedged in a rotten board?
I'm certain that I won't begin,
At ten years old to hoard!
I never will be called a miser,
That I'm determined, said Eliza.
So onward tript the little maid,
And left the pin behind,
Which very snug and quiet laid,
To its hard fate resigned;
Nor did she think (a careless chit)
'T was worth her while to stoop for it.
Next day a party was to ride
To see an air balloon;
And all the company beside
Were dressed and ready soon;
But she a woeful case was in,
For want of just a single pin!
In vain her eager eye she brings
To every darksome crack,
There was not one! and all her things
Were dropping off her back.
She cut her pincushion in two,
But no! not one had slidden through.
At last, as hunting on the floor
Over a crack she lay,
The carriage rattled to the door,
Then rattled fast away;
But poor Eliza was not in,
For want of just—a single pin.
There's hardly anything so small,
So trifling, or so mean,
That we may never want at all,
For service unforeseen;
And willful waste, depend upon 't,
Is, almost always, willful want!