'Why, Polly! What's the matter, dear?
You look so very sad:
Has your new doll been taken ill?
It cannot be so bad!'
Nine of the dolls sit in a row,
But there is one beside-
See in the corner, upside-down,
The little doll that lied!

Out in the corner, all alone,
The wicked doll must stay!
None of the rest must speak to her,
Or look there while they play.
All her best clothes, except her boots,
Are safely put aside
(Her boots are painted on her feet)-
The little doll that lied!

Oh, lying's such a naughty thing!
Why, she might swear and steal.
Or murder someone, I dare say;
Just think how we should feel
To have her in a prison live,
Or, worse than that, be hung!
What won't she do when she is old,
If she did this so young?

And now the silver mug and spoon
Come into use again,
And down the faces of the dolls
The tears run fast as rain.
Three have tipped over in their grief,
Their tears cannot be dried;
Their handkerchiefs are dripping wet-
The little doll has lied!