AT 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
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.
