  I SAID to the babe, out of swaddling bands, As it kicked up its heels, and flung out its hands, And blew little bubbles, and cried, and crew, “You innocent dear! But I wouldn’t be you! And yet I don’t know: you have never to think; You have only to snuggle, and sleep, and drink, And, in spite of original sin, grow fat. Yes, really, one might do worse than that!” I said to the schoolboy, “You joyous elf!”— I mean, I murmured the thing to myself, Or he would have laughed—“Get out, sir, do! I have half a mind to wish I were you! He looked so jolly, that scaramouch did, As gay as a Clown, as bold as the Cid; But then I remembered task and taws— There is always something to make one pause. And my dot of a daughter, she says, “Papa! I wish you would make me my own mamma! She is so happy, she is so nice! And then I would give you my three white mice!” Says I, “You’re a duck, a dear, a pearl!” But really my brain was inclined to whirl; “There is always something,” I thought; “but why? Perhaps we shall know of it by-and-bye.” So I went to my bed, and I dreamed that night Of a saint in heaven, all shining white. “Sweet, fair-eyed seraph!” said I, in sleep; “I wish I were you, in the rest you keep!” And yet at the word I thought, in bed, Of wife, and Walter, and Winifred; The Christmas bells my slumber broke: “There is always something!” thought I, and woke. |
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