  What will the baby be, Mamma, (With a kick and a crow, and a hushaby-low). What will the baby be, Mamma, When he grows up into a man? Will he always kick, and always crow, And flourish his arms and his legs about so, And make up such horrible faces, you know, As ugly as ever he can? The baby he may be a soldier, my dear, With a fife and a drum, and a rum-tiddy-tum! The baby he may be a soldier, my dear, When he grows up into a man. He will draw up his regiment all in a row, And flourish his sword in the face of the foe, Who will hie them away on a tremulous toe, As quickly as ever they can. The baby he may be a sailor, my dear, With a fore and an aft, and a tight little craft The baby he may be a sailor, my dear, When he grows up into a man. He will hoist his sails with a "Yo! heave, ho!" And take in his reefs when it comes on to blow, And shiver his timbers and so forth, you know, On a genuine nautical plan. The baby he may be a doctor, my dear, With a powder and pill, and a nice little bill. The baby he may be a doctor, my dear, When he grows up into a man. He will dose you with rhubarb, and calomel too, With draughts that are black and with pills that are blue; And the chances will be, when he's finished with you, You'll be worse off than when he began. The baby he may be a lawyer, my dear, With a bag and a fee, and a legal decree. The baby he may be a lawyer, my dear, When he grows up into a man. But, oh! dear me, should I tell to you The terrible things that a lawyer can do, You would take to your heels when he came into view, And run from Beersheba to Dan. |
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