I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
     And shut us all within;
And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I,
“And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
     And think how bad I’ve been!”

Alas for pious planning—
     It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
     The lamp might have been lit!
My Little Sorrow would not weep,
My Little Sin would go to sleep—
To save my soul I could not keep
     My graceless mind on it!

So up I got in anger,
     And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my hair
     To please a passing lad.
And, “One thing there’s no getting by—
I’ve been a wicked girl,” said I;
“But if I can’t be sorry, why,
     I might as well be glad!”