Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Bless the Babies

Bless the little babies!
   Oh, they make the home,
Keeping husband evenings,
   Time he used to roam.
Boon companions miss him--
   Cards have lost their charms;
There he sits contented,
   Baby in his arms.

Bless the little babies!
   Oh they strip the heart
Of all false allurements,
   By their native art.
Once the belle, a mother;
   Fashion, fol-de-rol;
Selfish whims that spoiled her,
   Vanish one and all.

Bless the little babies!
   Bridging many a breach,
'Twixt the wife and husband,
   Binding each to each.
Husband stops his growling,
   Warmed by baby's smiles;
Wife forgets her grievance,
   Watching baby's wiles.

Bless the little babies!
   Shame upon the wives
Ruled by Self, and Fashion,
   Living barren lives.
Out upon the practice,
   Murder--nothing less,
Of the scores of women
   God had meant to bless.

Bless the little babies!--
   Blessings, few or many,
Pity on the household
   Never counting any.
It is like a garden
   Where there are no flowers;
Bless the pretty blossoms,
   Filling happy bowers. 

1. The Birth of the Orchid
2. The Black Charger
3. All the World
4. At Set of Sun
5. The Call (All wantonly in hours of joy)

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