Ah, why will my dear little girl be so cross,
And cry, and look sulky, and pout?
To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss:
I can't even kiss her without.
You say you don't like to be wash'd and be dress'd:
But would you be dirty and foul?
Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast,
And clear your sweet face from its scowl.
If the water is cold and the comb hurts your head,
And the soap has got into your eye,
Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said?
What good will it do you to cry?
It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet,
But only for kindness and care,
That I wash you and dress you and make you look neat,
And comb out your tanglesome hair.
I don't mind the trouble, if you will not cry,
But pay me for all with a kiss,
That's right—take the towel and wipe your wet eye:
I thought you'd be good after this.