THE DOLLS

I take them up at morning, and I put them down at night, The large one, and the small one, and the rest; The one that came from London-town, the one from bright Japan, The pretty Paris lady with the fluffy feather fan, And the weary, dreary one I love the best; I take them up with smiling, and I put them down with sighs, And I smooth their hair with loving and with pride, When I put them in the cradle, at the paling of the skies, I sing my very softest at their side. O, a boy may have a fife and gun, a boy may have a drum, A boy may have a helmet with a plume; And a boy may go a-marching all around the house with shouts, And set the echoes ringing in a room; But dolls were made for girls, I guess, and here before the fire, I rock them, rock them, rock them to their rest; The one that came from London-town, the one from bright Japan, The pretty Paris lady with the fluffy feather fan, The nodding one that shuts its eyes as sleepy babies can, And the weary, dreary one I love the best.