There are babies in the high lands
And babies in the low,
There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins
On the margin of the snow,
And brown ones naked in the isles
Where all the spices grow.
And some are in the palace,
On a white and downy bed;
And some are in the garret,
With a clout beneath their head;
And some are on the cold, hard earth,
Whose mothers have no bread.
O little men and women,
Dear flowers yet unblown—
O little kings and beggars
Of the pageant yet unshown—
Sleep soft and dream pale dreams now,
To-morrow is your own.
MY DOLLY
Hush, Dolly, bye, Dolly, sleep, Dolly, dear,
See what a bed, Dolly, I’ve for you here;
Therefore, to sleep, Dolly! don’t fret and cry;
Lay down your head, Dolly, shut up your eye.
When the bright morn, Dolly, once more has come,
Up gets the sun, and goes forth to roam;
Then shall my dear Dolly soon get up, too;
Then shall be playtime for me and for you.
Now go to sleep, Dolly, good night to you;
You must to bed, Dolly—I’m going too;
Just go to sleep without trouble or pain,
And in the morning I’ll come back again.