HAT shall we do with baby,

The bright-eyed mischievous one?

He wakens us all in the morning,

Two hours before the sun.

From the time that his peepers open,

He pinches and pulls at our nose;

Or, perhaps, by way of diversion,

He gives us a taste of his toes.

We find him rattles and clothes-pins,

We give him books by the score,

And make him a house in the corner

When lo! he is at the door.

We pile up a basket of playthings,

And seat the rogue in a chair;

We leave to order the dinner,

Behold! no baby is there.

He has found his way to the closet,

He is rattling our chinaware;

We run—he is clasping a goblet,

And trying to climb a chair.

Original

He is full of the funniest capers,

And scolds in the funniest way;

But never will own he is weary,

Or rest from his busy play.

He struggles and battles with slumber,

He scratches and picks at his eyes,

We fancy him quietly sleeping,

But baby is watching the flies.

We give him a seat at the table,

We make him a house of our chairs,

And while the coach is preparing,

The baby is tumbling down stairs.

The apples are thrown from the basket,

His milk is spilled on the floor;

Bread and butter sticks to the carpet,

And sugar sticks on the door.

We puzzle our brains to amuse him,

We bow to his lordly will;

But do what we may, the baby

Is never a moment still.

Oh, what shall we do with baby—

With his fun, and frolic, and fears?

He charms us all with his mischief,

And conquers us all with his tears.