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The Invisible Playmate

W. V. her Book & In Memory of W. V.: By William Canton
  

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RHYMES ABOUT A LITTLE WOMAN
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RHYMES ABOUT A LITTLE WOMAN


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She is my pride; my plague: my rest; my rack: my bliss; my bane:
She brings me sunshine of the heart: and soft'ning of the brain.


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RHYMES ABOUT A LITTLE WOMAN

I

She's very, very beautiful; but—alas!—
Isn't it a pity that her eyes are glass?
And her face is only wax, coloured up, you know;
And her hair is just a fluff of very fine tow!
No!—she's not a doll. That will never do—
Never, never, never, for it is not true!
Did they call you a doll? Did they say that to you?
Oh, your eyes are little heavens of an earth made new;
Your face, it is the blossom of mortal things;
Your hair might be the down from an angel's wings!
Oh, yes; she's beauti-beautiful! What else could she be?
God meant her for Himself first, then gave her to me.

II

She was a treasure; she was a sweet;
She was the darling of the Army and the Fleet!
When—she—smiled
The crews of the line-of-battle ships went wild!

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When—she—cried—
Whole regiments reversed their arms and sighed!
When she was sick, for her sake
The Queen took off her crown and sobbed as if her heart would break.

III

Look at her shoulders now they are bare;
Are there any signs of feathers growing there?
No, not a trace; she cannot fly away;
This wingless little angel has been sent to stay.

IV

What shall we do to be rid of care?
Pack up her best clothes and pay her fare;
Pay her fare and let her go
By an early train to Jer-I-Cho.
There in Judæa she will be
Slumbering under a green palm-tree;
And the Arabs of the Desert will come round
When they see her lying on the ground,
And some will say, “Did you ever see
Such a remark-a-bil babee?”
And others, in the language the Arabs use,
“Nous n'avons jamais vu une telle papoose!”

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And she will grow and grow; and then
She will marry a chief of the Desert men;
And he will keep her from heat and cold,
And deck her in silk and satin and gold—
With bangles for her feet and jewels for her hair,
And other articles that ladies wear!
So pack up her best clothes, and let her go
By an early train to Jer-I-Cho!
Pack up her best clothes, and pay her fare;
So we shall be rid of trouble and care!

V

Take the idol to her shrine;
In her cradle lay her!
Worship her—she is divine;
Offer up your prayer!
She will bless you, bed and board,
If befittingly adored.

VI

On a summer morning, Babsie up a tree
In came a Blackbird, sat on Babsie's knee.
Babsie to Blackbird—“Blackbird, how you do?”
Blackbird to Babsie—“Babsie, how was you?
“How was you in this commodious tree—
“How was you and all your famu—ilu—ee?”

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VII

This is the way the ladies ride—
Saddle-a-side, saddle-a-side!
This is the way the gentlemen ride—
Sitting astride, sitting astride!
This is the way the grandmothers ride—
Bundled and tied, bundled and tied!
This is the way the babbykins ride—
Snuggled inside, snuggled inside!
This is the way, when they are late,
They all fly over a five-barred gate!

VIII

We are not wealthy, but, you see,
Others are far worse off than we.
Here's a gaberlunzie begging at the door—
If we gave him Babs, he'd need no more!
Oh, she'll fill your cup, and she'll fill your can;
She'll make you happy, happy! Take her, beggar man!
Give a beggar Babsie? Give this child away?
That would leave us poor, and poor, for ever and a day!

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After-thought—

The gaberlunzie man is sad;
The Babe is far from glee;
He with his poverty is plagued—
And with her poor teeth she!
 

As who should say “poortith.”

IX

Oh, where have you been, and how do you do,
And what did you beg, or borrow, or buy
For this little girl with the sash of blue?
Why,
A cushie-coo; and a cockatoo;
And a cariboo; and a kangaroo;
And a croodlin' doo; and a quag from the Zoo—
And all for the girl with the sash of blue!

X

When she's very thirsty, what does she do?
She croons to us in Doric; she murmurs “A-coo!”
Oh, the little Scotch girl, who would ever think
She'd want a coo—a whole coo—needing but a drink!
Moo, moo!—a coo!
Mammie's gone to market; Mammie'll soon be here;
Mammie's bought a brindled coo! Patience, woman dear!
Don't you hear your Crummie lowing in the lane?
She's going up to pasture; we'll bring her home again!
Moo, moo!—a coo!

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Grow sweet, you little wild flowers, about our Crummie's feet;
Be glad, you green and patient grass, to have our Crummie eat;
And hasten, Crummie, hasten, or what shall I do?
For here's a waesome lassie skirlin' for a coo!
Moo, moo!—a coo!
A moment yet! The sun is set, and all the lanes are red;
And here is Crummie coming to the milking shed!
Why, mother, mother, don't you hear this terrible to-do?
Dépêchez-vous! A coo—a coo—a kingdom for a coo!
Moo, moo!—a coo!

XI

When she laughs and waves about
Her pink small fingers, who can doubt
She's catching at the glittering plumes
Of angels flying round the rooms?

XII

Poor Babbles is dead with sleep;
Poor Babbles is dead with sleep!
Eyes she hardly can open keep;
Lower the gas to a glimmering peep.
All good angels, hover and keep
Watch above her—poor Babbles!—asleep.