"The Pin." by Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
So tripping on to giddy play,
She left the pin behind,
For Betty's broom to whisk away,
Or some one else to find;
She never gave a thought, indeed,
To what she might to-morrow need.
Next day a party was to ride,
To see an air-balloon!
And all the company beside
Were dress'd and ready soon:
But she, poor girl, she could not stir,
For just a pin to finish her.
'Twas vainly now, with eye and hand,
She did to search begin;
There was not one–not one, the band
Of her pelisse to pin!
She cut her pincushion in two,
But not a pin 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.
Poor Emily! she was not in,
For want of just–a single pin!
There's hardly anything so small,
So trifling or so mean,
That we may never want at all,
For service unforseen:
And those who venture wilful waste,
May woeful want expect to taste.