Уильям Брайти Рэндс (William Brighty Rands)

Polly

Brown eyes,
       Straight nose;
Dirt pies,
       Rumpled clothes;

Torn books,
       Spoilt toys;
Arch looks,
       Unlike a boy's;

Little rages,
       Obvious arts;
(Three her age is)
       Cakes, tarts.

Falling down
       Off chairs;
Breaking crown
       Down stairs;

Catching flies
       on the pane;
Deep sighs,—
       Cause not plain;

Bribing you
       With kisses
For a few
       Farthing blisses;

Wide awake,
       As you hear,
"Mercy's sake,
       Quiet dear!"

New shoes,
       New frock;
Vague views
       Of what's o'clock

When it's time
       To go to bed,
And scorn sublime
       For what is said;

Folded hands,
       Saying prayers,
Understands
       Not, nor cares;

Thinks it odd,
       Smiles away;
Yet may God
       Hear her pray!

Bedgown white,
       Kiss dolly;
Goodnight! -
       That's Polly,

Fast asleep,
       As you see;
Heaven keep
       My girl for me!

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