Who fought for ladies fair.
It was only a battered picture-book,
But ’twas worth its weight in gold,
For it spoke to the children’s tender hearts,
And its tales were never old.
It is an old old picture-book,
Battered, and torn, and brown;
But why does the mother sit and sigh?
Why do her tears run down?
She listens through the long long eves,