TO MY INFANT SON
By Thomas Hood
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he’s poking peas into his ear,)
Thou merry, laughing sprite,
With spirits, feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin;
(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
Light as the singing bird that rings the air,—
(The door! the door! he’ll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he’ll set his pinafore afire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love’s dear chain so bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents;—(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink.)
Thou cherub, but of earth;
Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth’s Elysium ever sunny,—
(Another tumble! That’s his precious nose!)
Thy father’s pride and hope!
(He’ll break that mirror with that skipping rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from nature’s mint,
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He’ll have that ring off with another shove,)
