  Chee! Chee! Chickadee! Sing-time and sun! Aye, aye, baby-bye, Springtime has begun! In the little willow cart, On a downy bed, Pretty parasol of silk Swinging overhead, Let us go along the lane Where a baby sees Mighty tufts of grass, and weeds Tall as forest trees! Bluebird on the apple-bough, Sing and sing and sing! Sing your very sweetest now For babyhood and spring! "Bah! Bah!" from the pasture, And "Caw! Caw!" from the crow, And bleating from the little calf That has not learned to low. Apple-buds, apple-buds breaking apart, The baby looks upward with love-laden gaze; Oh, shower some petals down here in his cart, One honey-sweet cluster of pretty pink sprays! Apple-buds, apple-buds, scornful and too Vain of your loveliness, stay where you are! The cheeks of the baby are pinker than you, And finer and softer and sweeter by far! See the pretty little lambs, How they frisk and play! See their silky fleeces shine White as buds in May! White as are the fleecy clouds Softly blowing by— What if they were little lambs Playing in the sky? Robin on the peach-bough, Swinging overhead, Sing a little song and say Why is your breast so red? Why is your voice so sweet, and Your song so merry, say? And wherefore do you spread your wings And quickly fly away? Ho, ho! see the queer little prints there That cover the road, baby, look! At the web-footed tangle that hints where The ducks have gone down to the brook! The Muscovy mammas that waddled Zigzag, you can trace in their tracks, And the dear little ducklings that toddled And tumbled sometimes on their backs! Buttercup, buttercup, buttercup gold, O give us a handful of riches to hold! Ho, ho! laughs the baby, and grasps in his glee His wealth, but soon shows what a spend-thrift is he! —Nay, nay, he is king, though he never was crowned, And royally scatters his gold on the ground! Bough of the willow-tree Over the brook, Down darts a kingfisher, Look, baby, look! Back on the willow-bough, Fishing is done; Happy and nappy now There in the sun. Softly his eyelids droop over the blue, Golden his curls on the white pillow lie, Sleep, baby, sleep, baby, hush-a-by-bye. |
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