" DEAR me! what signifies a pin,
Wedged in a rotten board?
I'm certain that I won't begin,
At ten years old, to hoard!
I never will be called a miser;
That I'm determined," said Eliza.

So onward tripped the little maid,
And left the pin behind,
Which very snug and quiet laid,
To its hard fate resigned;
Nor did she think (a careless chit)
'Twas worth her while to stop for it.

Next day a party was to ride
To see an air balloon;
And all the company beside,
Were dressed and ready soon:
But she a woeful case was in,
For want of just a single pin.

In vain her eager eyes she brings
To every darksome crack,
There was not one! and yet her things
Were dropping off her back.
She cut her pincushion in two,
But no! not one had slidden through.

At last, as hunting on the floor,
Over a crack she lay,
The carriage rattled to the door,
Then rattled fast away;
But poor Eliza was not in,
For want of just — a single pin!

There's hardly any thing so small,
So trifling, or so mean,
That we may never want at all,
For service unforeseen;
And wilful waste, depend upon't,
Brings, almost always, woeful want.