He cannot walk, he cannot speak,
Nothing he knows of books and men,
He is the weakest of the weak,
And has not strength to hold a pen;
He has no pocket, and no purse,
Nor ever yet has owned a penny,
But has more riches than his nurse,
Because he wants not any.
He rules his parents by a cry,
And holds them captive by a smile,—
A despot, strong through infancy,
A king, from lack of guile.
He lies upon his back and crows,
Or looks with grave eyes on his mother,—
What can he mean? But I suppose
They understand each other.
Indoors or out, early or late,
There is no limit to his sway,
For wrapt in baby robes of state,
He governs night and day.
Kisses he takes as rightful due,
And, Turk-like, has his slaves to dress him.
His subjects bend before him too,
I'm one of them. God bless him!