See how my Harry hangs his head,
And rubs his little peepy;
'Tis time to trot up stairs to bed
When babies are so sleepy.
Then let us put his playthings by,
Jane's rattle, and her dolly;
We must not leave all things awry,
To make more work for Molly.
Come trip up stairs with nimble feet,
—A kiss for dear Mamma;
Hark, hark, she says "farewell my sweet,"
And Harry says, "ta, ta."
(He does not say—"Mamma, do let
Me stop a little longer?"
Indulgence soon would spoil her pet,
And make his will grow stronger.)
Now, we must all the windows shut,
And let the curtains down;
Now, on the little cap we'll put,
And now the sleeping gown.
My Harry must lie still, and keep
The bed-clothes nice and even;
"Ta, ta,"—he'll soon be fast asleep,
For, hark! the clock strikes seven.