AT Backworth sung till echo rung,
A bard whose feelings were,
In what to young and old he sung
Of little Dolly Dare.

'Tho' Lizzy's sweet and Polly's neat,
And Fanny she is fair,
There's truly none, was never one,
So blithe as Dolly Dare.

In doors and out she stirs about
As if she felt aware,
By labour glows more red the rose
That dowereth Dolly Dare.

A duty here with forehead clear,
With grace a duty there,
She'll do, and do what very few
Can do, will Dolly Dare.

She, knitting, will a ditty trill
And, to an olden air,
The needles bright dance left and right
Of sweet-tongued Dolly Dare.

Beneath her touch, its power is such,
As bright as palace rare,
The cottage seems, and in it gleams
A Queen in Dolly Dare.

The pots and mugs and pans and jugs
Into their places fare,
And clearer glow and dearer grow
When touched by Dolly Dare.

The bread she bakes, the beds she makes,
And up and down the stair,
On tripping toe will dancing go
The tidy Dolly Dare.

To words of mirth she scours the hearth,
While in his easy chair
Old Robin lies and, smoking, eyes
With pride his Dolly Dare.

Her pail to fill she'll to the rill,
Or to the well, and there
Doth clearly see Truth's self, for she
Therein sees Dolly Dare.

Tis thus away she'll while the day,
And then to me repair,
When envy smit the moments flit
O'er me and Dolly Dare.'

The bard his song so sung and long,
Tho' plain his verses were,
Wagged every tongue with what he sung
Of little Dolly Dare.