  There's mischief in thine eye, young boy! Thy lip has a saucy air— And the winds breathe on thee health and joy, As they stir thy golden hair. No sorrow flings its shadow o'er Thy baby heart and brow! And never at a palace door Was prouder imp than thou! Prythee, don't raise thy little hand, With such a lordly air! For pussy laughs at thy command,— And Carlo doesn't care. Ah! pretty one! thou'rt very bold, And pompous in thy stride— How dost thou know, at four years old, Thou art a father's pride? When manhood comes, thou wilt be gay— But not as now—ah, never! For now to-morrow seems to-day— Thyself a boy forever! Sweet babe! would I again could be As innocent as thou— With heaven's pure ray, so calm and free, Upon my heart and brow! H.W. Pickersgill pinxt. F. Kearny Sc. THE FATHER'S PRIDE. |
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