MY dolly is a dreadful care,—
Her name is Miss Amandy;
I dress her up and curl her hair,
And feed her taffy candy.
Yet heedless of the pleading voice
Of her devoted mother,
She will not wed her mother’s choice,
But says she’ll wed another.
I’d have her wed the china vase,—
There is no Dresden rarer;
You might go searching every place
And never find a fairer.
He is a gentle, pinkish youth,—
Of that there’s no denying;
Yet when I speak of him, forsooth,
Amandy falls to crying!
She loves the drum—that’s very plain—
And scorns the vase so clever;
And weeping, vows she will remain
A spinster doll forever!
The protestations of the drum
I am convinced are hollow;
When once distressing times should come,
How soon would ruin follow!
Yet all in vain the Dresden boy
From yonder mantel woos her;
A mania for that vulgar toy,
The noisy drum, imbues her!
In vain I wheel her to and fro,
And reason with her mildly,—
Her waxen tears in torrents flow,
Her sawdust heart beats wildly.
I’m sure that when I’m big and tall,
And wear long trailing dresses,
I sha’n’t encourage beaux at all
Till mama acquiesces;
Our choice will be a suitor then
As pretty as this vase is,—
Oh, how we’ll hate the noisy men
With whiskers on their faces!
NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT
THE mill goes toiling slowly around
With steady and solemn creak,
And my little one hears in the kindly sound
The voice of the old mill speak.
While round and round those big white wings
Grimly and ghostlike creep,
My little one hears that the old mill sings:
“Sleep, little tulip, sleep!”
The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn,
And, over his pot of beer,
The fisher, against the morrow’s dawn,
Lustily maketh cheer;
He mocks at the winds that caper along
From the far-off clamorous deep—
But we—we love their lullaby song
Of “Sleep, little tulip, sleep!”
Old dog Fritz in slumber sound
Groans of the stony mart—
To-morrow how proudly he’ll trot you round,
Hitched to our new milk-cart!
And you shall help me blanket the kine
And fold the gentle sheep
And set the herring a-soak in brine—
But now, little tulip, sleep!
A Dream-One comes to button the eyes
That wearily droop and blink,
While the old mill buffets the frowning skies
And scolds at the stars that wink;
Over your face the misty wings
Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep,
And rocking your cradle she softly sings:
“Sleep, little tulip, sleep!”