His Wife and Boy.
LOVE is a myth which men create from vapors of the heart and brain,
Thus far the poet grave did get, then from a smile could not refrain,
Someone was singing, he could hear
Each word so low and sweet and clear,
“By Baby Bunting!
Papa’s gone a-hunting,
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”
Right well he knew that picture fair
Might set a stoic’s heart aglow,
For it was such a bonnie pair,
So gently rocking to and fro.
The old song was a foolish thing,
Yet it seemed good to hear her sing,
“By Baby Bunting!
Papa’s gone a-hunting,
To get a little rabbit-skin
To wrap his Baby-Bunting in.”
The sunshine would be creeping down
Upon her hair of golden brown,
And farther yet that it might peep
At her awake, at him asleep,
And both were his to have and hold,
How runs the foolish song so old?
“By Baby-Bunting!
Papa’s gone a-hunting
To get a little rabbit-skin
To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”
But he must to his hunting go,
A cloak this pen of his must win
As soft as silk and white as snow,
To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.
Strange that his poem deep and strong
Should wait upon a nursery song,
“By Baby-Bunting!
Papa’s gone a hunting,
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”
Love is a myth that men create
From vapors of the heart and brain,
O pen, I fear you lied of late!
Hark, softly rings the old refrain!
“By Baby-Bunting!
Papa’s gone a-hunting,
To get a little rabbit-skin
To wrap the Baby-Bunting in.”
She Just Keeps House For Me
SHE is so winsome and so wise
She sways us at her will,
And oft the question will arise
What mission does she fill?
And so I say with pride untold
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold
She just keeps house for me—
For me,
She just keeps house for me.
A full content dwells in her face,
She’s quite in love with life,
And for a title, wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned “Wife,”
And so I say with pride untold,
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold
She just keeps house for me—
For me,
She just keeps house for me.