 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE.
Mamma's in heaven! and so, you see
My sister Bet's mamma to me.
Oh! yes, I love her!—that's to say,
I love her well the whole bright day;
For Sis is kind as kind can be,
Until, indeed we've finished tea—
Then (why did God make ugly night?)
She never, never treats me right,
But always says, “Now, sleepy head,
'Tis getting late! come up to bed!”
My sister Bet's mamma to me.
Oh! yes, I love her!—that's to say,
I love her well the whole bright day;
For Sis is kind as kind can be,
Until, indeed we've finished tea—
Then (why did God make ugly night?)
She never, never treats me right,
But always says, “Now, sleepy head,
'Tis getting late! come up to bed!”
Just when the others, Fred and Fay,
Dolly and Dick, are keen for play—
Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks,
Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box—
I must (it's that bad gas, I think,
That makes me somehow seem to wink!)
Must leave them all to seek the gloom
Of sister Bet's close-curtained room,
Put on that long stiff gown I hate,
And go to bed—oh, dear! at eight!
Now, is it fair that I who stand
Taller than Dolly by a hand,
(I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told,
That cousin Doll is ten years old!
And just because I'm only seven,
Should be so teased, yes, almost driven,
Soon as I've supped my milk and bread,
To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?
I've lain between the dusky posts,
And shivered when I thought of ghosts:
Or else have grown so mad, you know,
To hear those laughing romps below,
While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!)
With one dim lamp for company.
I've longed for courage just to dare
Dress softly—then trip down the stair,
And on the parlor pop my head
With “No, I will not stay abed!”
Dolly and Dick, are keen for play—
Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks,
Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box—
I must (it's that bad gas, I think,
That makes me somehow seem to wink!)
Must leave them all to seek the gloom
Of sister Bet's close-curtained room,
Put on that long stiff gown I hate,
And go to bed—oh, dear! at eight!
370
Taller than Dolly by a hand,
(I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told,
That cousin Doll is ten years old!
And just because I'm only seven,
Should be so teased, yes, almost driven,
Soon as I've supped my milk and bread,
To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?
I've lain between the dusky posts,
And shivered when I thought of ghosts:
Or else have grown so mad, you know,
To hear those laughing romps below,
While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!)
With one dim lamp for company.
I've longed for courage just to dare
Dress softly—then trip down the stair,
And on the parlor pop my head
With “No, I will not stay abed!”
I'll do it yet, all quick and bold,
No matter how our Bet may scold.
For, oh! I'm sure it can't be right,
To keep me here each dismal night,
Half scared by shadows grimly tall
That dance along the cheerless wall,
Or by the wind, with fingers chill,
Shaking the worn-out window-sill
One might as well be sick or dead,
As sent by eight o'clock to bed!
No matter how our Bet may scold.
For, oh! I'm sure it can't be right,
To keep me here each dismal night,
Half scared by shadows grimly tall
That dance along the cheerless wall,
Or by the wind, with fingers chill,
Shaking the worn-out window-sill
One might as well be sick or dead,
As sent by eight o'clock to bed!
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |