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| THOU happy, happy elf! | |
| (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) | |
| Thou tiny image of myself! | |
| (My love, he ’s poking peas into his ear,) | |
| Thou merry, laughing sprite, | 5 |
| With spirits, feather light, | |
| Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; | |
| (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!) | |
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| Thou little tricksy Puck! | |
| With antic toys so funnily bestuck, | 10 |
| Light as the singing bird that rings the air,— | |
| (The door! the door! he ’ll tumble down the stair!) | |
| Thou darling of thy sire! | |
| (Why, Jane, he ’ll set his pinafore afire!) | |
| Thou imp of mirth and joy! | 15 |
| In love’s dear chain so bright a link, | |
| Thou idol of thy parents;—(Drat the boy! | |
| There goes my ink.) | |
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| Thou cherub, but of earth; | |
| Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, | 20 |
| In harmless sport and mirth, | |
| (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) | |
| Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey | |
| From every blossom in the world that blows, | |
| Singing in youth’s Elysium ever sunny,— | 25 |
| (Another tumble! That ’s his precious nose!) | |
| Thy father’s pride and hope! | |
| (He ’ll break that mirror with that skipping-rope!) | |
| With pure heart newly stamped from nature’s mint, | |
| (Where did he learn that squint?) | 30 |
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| Thou young domestic dove! | |
| (He ’ll have that ring off with another shove,) | |
| Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! | |
| (Are these torn clothes his best?) | |
| Little epitome of man! | 35 |
| (He ’ll climb upon the table, that ’s his plan,) | |
| Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, | |
| (He ’s got a knife!) | |
| Thou enviable being! | |
| No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, | 40 |
| Play on, play on, | |
| My elfin John! | |
| Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,— | |
| (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) | |
| With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, | 45 |
| Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, | |
| With many a lamb-like frisk! | |
| (He ’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) | |
| Thou pretty opening rose! | |
| (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) | 50 |
| Balmy and breathing music like the south, | |
| (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) | |
| Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove; | |
| (I ’ll tell you what, my love, | |
| I cannot write unless he ’s sent above.) | 55 |
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