Mary and Her Secret Garden

Mary Lennox and

Her red-breasted robin

Went for a walk one day

To find the secret garden.

Mary, Mary, quite the contrary

Disagreeable, surly, womanish thing

But even little Mary looked a little bit pretty

As she went in search for the secret garden.

The sprightly little robin, twittering about

Led her to a fresh-looking dug up mound

And right there dirt-crested was the hilt of a key

Lost for ten years, could it be, could it be?

So Mary Lennox and

Her jolly beady-eyed robin

Blew away the matted ivy

And entered the secret garden.

Oh, what magic, what sweet-smelling things

A quite alive garden in the budding spring

Green pointy things in the weeded out patch

Mary Lennox, and her garden alas!

The white root onion-looking stuff

Are bulbs, said kind Martha with her talk and fluff

And come quaint spring, in the windy moor

Snowdrops will bloom in thousands for sure.

So Mistress Mary, quite less contrary

Tended to her friend the red-breasted robin

Who lived in a nest on top of a rose tree

All the way up hidden in her pretty secret garden.

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