A little elf, a girl, a tiny tot,
With waxen face, indents the baby cot,
And visions fair regale her infant sight
Of cakes and candy through the silent night.
Sleep, little angel, Gentian marks thy worth,
A sleeping child, the sweetest thing on earth.
’Midst dirt and filth, at night the city gloom
Steals weird and sickly to a garret room,
Where, breathing hard upon a mattress bare,
A girlish form is outlined sleeping there.