Why, what a busy maid thou art,

With eyes so like a dove!

And I am sure thy little heart

Is running o'er with love.

No grief hast thou, save now and then

Thy bread and butter falls,—

Or careless little bantam hen

Escapes from her wooden walls.

Sometimes thy roguish brother comes

Along with stealthy tread,

And in thy startled ear he drums,

Or pulls thy curly head.

And these are all the troubles thou

E'er hast, my gentle Mary—

No wonder thou, with happy brow,

Art listening to Canary.

And then thou art so very kind

To every thing that moves—

Thy little feather'd brood all find

How sweetly Mary loves.

James is an active, winning child—

Dearly we love the boy—

But thou, my little maiden mild,

Thou art thy Mother's Joy!