Little Girls must not fret.

What is it that makes little Harriet cry?

Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye:

There—lay down your head on my bosom—that’s right,

And now tell mamma what’s the matter to-night.

What! baby is sleepy and tired with play?

Come, Betty, make haste, then, and fetch her away;

But do not be fretful, my darling, because

Mamma cannot love little girls that are cross.

She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there.

Ah! here’s her sweet smile come again, I declare:

That’s right, for I thought you quite naughty before:

Good night, my dear girl, but don’t fret any more.