Apple-buds, apple-buds, scornful and too
Vain of your loveliness, stay where you are!
The cheeks of the baby are pinker than you,
And finer and softer and sweeter by far!
See the pretty little lambs,
How they frisk and play!
See their silky fleeces shine
White as buds in May!
White as are the fleecy clouds
Softly blowing by—
What if they were little lambs
Playing in the sky?
Robin on the peach-bough,
Swinging overhead,
Sing a little song and say
Why is your breast so red?
Why is your voice so sweet, and
Your song so merry, say?
And wherefore do you spread your wings
And quickly fly away?
Ho, ho! see the queer little prints there
That cover the road, baby, look!
At the web-footed tangle that hints where
The ducks have gone down to the brook!
The Muscovy mammas that waddled
Zigzag, you can trace in their tracks,
And the dear little ducklings that toddled
And tumbled sometimes on their backs!