Toutouie la, la, my little child,

Toutouie la, la.

Your mother is here, my little child,

To rock you softly, little dear.

Your mother is here, my little lamb,

She will sing you a little song.

The other day she wept sorely;

Now she smiles, the little mother.

Toutouie la, la, my little bird,

In the sweet breast of thy rose tree.

To fly to heaven, my little angel,

Do not spread your little wing.

There is also the element of infantile humor, as in all nursery songs, to bring smiles to the rosy cheeks, with food for the simple imagination open-ing its eyes on the birds and beasts around it, and endowing them with human life. One can feel how a child would appreciate the little story of The Fox Gallant with a sense at once of reality and hu-mor:—