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!”