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Little Girls Must Not Fret WHAT is it that makes little Emily cry? Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye: There–lay down your head on my bosom–that's right, And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night. What! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play? Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away; But do not be fretful, my darling; you know Mamma cannot love little girls that are so. She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there– Ah! here's her sweet smile come again, I declare: That's right, for I thought you quite naughty before. Good night, my dear child, but don't fret any more. Ann Taylor's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1229 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |