Buttercup, buttercup, buttercup gold,
O give us a handful of riches to hold!
Ho, ho! laughs the baby, and grasps in his glee
His wealth, but soon shows what a spend-thrift is he!
—Nay, nay, he is king, though he never was crowned,
And royally scatters his gold on the ground!
Bough of the willow-tree
Over the brook,
Down darts a kingfisher,
Look, baby, look!
Back on the willow-bough,
Fishing is done;
Happy and nappy now
There in the sun.
Happy and nappy the baby is, too,
Softly his eyelids droop over the blue,
Golden his curls on the white pillow lie,
Sleep, baby, sleep, baby, hush-a-by-bye.