Aye, here is your cradle! Why surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were an exceedingly small pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flow’d in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife,— A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex’d with that newly-found fardel called life. To hint at an infantine frailty’s a scandal; All bye-gones are bye-gones—and somebody knows It was bliss such a baby to dance and to dandle, Your cheeks were so velvet—so rosy your toes. Aye, here is your cradle! and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know; They guard o’er the nest you yourself did inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling; Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask,— “My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?” If mask’d, still it pleases, then raise not its mask. Is life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; For at most ’tis a footstep from cradle to coffin,— From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny! I see you, except for that infantine woe, Scarce changed since you were but a small pic-a-ninny,— Your cheek is still velvet—pray what is your toe? Aye, here is your cradle! much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped; But, hark! as I’m talking there’s six o’clock striking, It is time Jenny’s Baby should be in its bed!
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