For mother, who had much to do.
I’d try to put the baby through.
I’d feel its tiny foot, and sly
Would pinch or scratch, and make it cry,
Or rub its head, with look so meek,
And pull its hair or pinch its cheek;
And mother would at once begin
To look for the offending pin,
That made the “baby waby” shriek,
Ne’er dreaming it was Bessie’s freak.