The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street
      Comes stealing; comes creeping;
      The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
      And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet—
      She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
      When she findeth you sleeping!

      There is one little dream of a beautiful drum—
      "Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;
      There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,
      And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
      Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
      And a trumpet that bloweth!

      And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams
      With laughter and singing;
      And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
      And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,
      And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,
      The fairies go winging!

      Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?
      They'll come to you sleeping;
      So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
      For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,
      With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
      Comes stealing; comes creeping.

      On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
      And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
      In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,
      And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;
      Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,
      And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh"!

      Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared,
      And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared;
      And then his under lip came out and farther out it came,
      Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame"—
      But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do
      But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!"

      He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then
      In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!"
      And I—of course I do it; for, as his progenitor,
      It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for!
      And it is, oh, such fun I am sure that we shall rue
      The time when we are both too old to play the game "Booh!"

      When our babe he goeth walking in his garden,
      Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;
      The posies they are good to him,
      And bow them as they should to him,
      As fareth he upon his kingly way;
      And birdlings of the wood to him
      Make music, gentle music, all the day,
      When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.

      When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,
      Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;
      The little stars are kind to him,
      The moon she hath a mind to him
      And layeth on his head a golden crown;
      And singeth then the wind to him
      A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,
      When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.

      Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?
      'T is a pitiful sound to hear!
      It seems to chill you through and through
      With a strange and speechless fear.
      'T is the voice of the night that broods outside
      When folk should be asleep,
      And many and many's the time I've cried
      To the darkness brooding far and wide
      Over the land and the deep:
      "Whom do you want, O lonely night,
      That you wail the long hours through?"
      And the night would say in its ghostly way:
          "Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!"

      My mother told me long ago
      (When I was a little tad)
      That when the night went wailing so,
      Somebody had been bad;
      And then, when I was snug in bed,
      Whither I had been sent,
      With the blankets pulled up round my head,
      I'd think of what my mother'd said,
      And wonder what boy she meant!
      And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask
      Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
      And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
          "Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!"

      That this was true I must allow—
      You'll not believe it, though!
      Yes, though I'm quite a model now,
      I was not always so.
      And if you doubt what things I say,
      Suppose you make the test;
      Suppose, when you've been bad some day
      And up to bed are sent away
      From mother and the rest—
      Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"
      And then you'll hear what's true;
      For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
          "Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!
           Yoooooooo!"

      'T is when the lark goes soaring
      And the bee is at the bud,
      When lightly dancing zephyrs
      Sing over field and flood;
      When all sweet things in nature
      Seem joyfully achime—
      'T is then I wake my darling,
      For it is kissing time!

      Go, pretty lark, a-soaring,
      And suck your sweets, O bee;
      Sing, O ye winds of summer,
      Your songs to mine and me;
      For with your song and rapture
      Cometh the moment when
      It's half-past kissing time
      And time to kiss again!

      So—so the days go fleeting
      Like golden fancies free,
      And every day that cometh
      Is full of sweets for me;
      And sweetest are those moments
      My darling comes to climb
      Into my lap to mind me
      That it is kissing time.

      Sometimes, maybe, he wanders
      A heedless, aimless way—
      Sometimes, maybe, he loiters
      In pretty, prattling play;
      But presently bethinks him
      And hastens to me then,
      For it's half-past kissing time
      And time to kiss again!

      Father calls me William, sister calls me Will,
      Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill!
      Mighty glad I ain't a girl—ruther be a boy,
      Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy!
      Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake—
      Hate to take the castor-ile they give for bellyache!
      'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me,
      But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

      Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;
      First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at!
      Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide,
      'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride!
      But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,
      He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,
      An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!"
      But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!

      Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,
      I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,
      As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle,
      Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!
      But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show,
      Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd know
      That Buff'lo Bill an' cow-boys is good enough for me!
      Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!

      And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still,
      His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"
      The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become
      Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!
      But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz,
      That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"
      But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me
      When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!

      For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys,
      Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys;
      So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's,
      An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes;
      Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men,
      An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again;
      But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree,
      Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

      I say, as one who never feared
      The wrath of a subscriber's bullet,
      I pity him who has a beard
      But has no little girl to pull it!

      When wife and I have finished tea,
      Our baby woos me with her prattle,
      And, perching proudly on my knee,
      She gives my petted whiskers battle.

      With both her hands she tugs away,
      While scolding at me kind o' spiteful;
      You'll not believe me when I say
      I find the torture quite delightful!

      No other would presume, I ween,
      To trifle with this hirsute wonder,
      Else would I rise in vengeful mien
      And rend his vandal frame asunder!

      But when her baby fingers pull
      This glossy, sleek, and silky treasure,
      My cup of happiness is full—
      I fairly glow with pride and pleasure!

      And, sweeter still, through all the day
      I seem to hear her winsome prattle—
      I seem to feel her hands at play,
      As though they gave me sportive battle.

      Yes, heavenly music seems to steal
      Where thought of her forever lingers,
      And round my heart I always feel
      The twining of her dimpled fingers!

      In an ocean, 'way out yonder
      (As all sapient people know),
      Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
      Whither children love to go;
      It's their playing, romping, swinging,
      That give great joy to me
      While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
      In the amfalula tree!

      There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
      And taffy's thick as peas—
      Caramels you pick like berries
      When, and where, and how you please;
      Big red sugar-plums are clinging
      To the cliffs beside that sea
      Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

      So when children shout and scamper
      And make merry all the day,
      When there's naught to put a damper
      To the ardor of their play;
      When I hear their laughter ringing,
      Then I'm sure as sure can be
      That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

      For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras
      And staccatos are so sweet—
      His roulades, appoggiaturas,
      And robustos so complete,
      That the youth of every nation—
      Be they near or far away—
      Have especial delectation
      In that gladsome roundelay.

      Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
      Their lungs begin to crow,
      Their hearts get light and lighter,
      And their cheeks are all aglow;
      For an echo cometh bringing
      The news to all and me,
      That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree.

      I'm sure you like to go there
      To see your feathered friend—
      And so many goodies grow there
      You would like to comprehend!
      Speed, little dreams, your winging
      To that land across the sea
      Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
      In the amfalula tree!

      I'm a beautiful red, red drum,
      And I train with the soldier boys;
      As up the street we come,
      Wonderful is our noise!
      There's Tom, and Jim, and Phil,
      And Dick, and Nat, and Fred,
      While Widow Cutler's Bill
      And I march on ahead,
      With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
      And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum—
      Oh, there's bushels of fun in that
      For boys with a little red drum!

      The Injuns came last night
      While the soldiers were abed,
      And they gobbled a Chinese kite
      And off to the woods they fled!
      The woods are the cherry-trees
      Down in the orchard lot,
      And the soldiers are marching to seize
      The booty the Injuns got.
      With tum-titty-um-tum-tum,
      And r-r-rat-tat-tat,
      When soldiers marching come
      Injuns had better scat!

      Step up there, little Fred,
      And, Charley, have a mind!
      Jim is as far ahead
      As you two are behind!
      Ready with gun and sword
      Your valorous work to do—
      Yonder the Injun horde
      Are lying in wait for you.
      And their hearts go pitapat
      When they hear the soldiers come
      With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
      And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum!

      Course it's all in play!
      The skulking Injun crew
      That hustled the kite away
      Are little white boys, like you!
      But "honest" or "just in fun,"
      It is all the same to me;
      And, when the battle is won,
      Home once again march we
      With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
      And tum-titty-um-tum-tum;
      And there's glory enough in that
      For the boys with their little red drum!

      Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
      In agony I knelt and said:
      "O God! what have I done,
      Or in what wise offended Thee,
      That Thou should'st take away from me
      My little son?

      "Upon the thousand useless lives,
      Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives,
      Thy wrath were better spent!
      Why should'st Thou take my little son—
      Why should'st Thou vent Thy wrath upon
      This innocent?"

      Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
      Before mine eyes the vision spread
      Of things that might have been:
      Licentious riot, cruel strife,
      Forgotten prayers, a wasted life
      Dark red with sin!

      Then, with sweet music in the air,
      I saw another vision there:
      A Shepherd in whose keep
      A little lamb—my little child!
      Of worldly wisdom undefiled,
      Lay fast asleep!

      Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,
      In those two messages I read
      A wisdom manifest;
      And though my arms be childless now,
      I am content—to Him I bow
      Who knoweth best.

      It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks,
      That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes;
      Then it's sleep no more for baby, and it's sleep no more for me,
      For, when he wants his dinner, why it's dinner it must be!
      And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado,
        While gran'ma laughs,
        And gran'pa laughs,
        And wife, she laughs,
        And I—well, I laugh, too!

      You'd think, to see us carrying on about that little tad,
      That, like as not, that baby was the first we'd ever had;
      But, sakes alive! he isn't, yet we people make a fuss
      As if the only baby in the world had come to us!
      And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do,
        Gran'ma, she laughs,
        Gran'pa, he laughs,
        Wife, she laughs,
        And I, of course, laugh, too!

      But once—a likely spell ago—when that poor little chick
      From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick,
      You wouldn't know us people as the same that went about
      A-feelin' good all over, just to hear him crow and shout;
      And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he'd pull him through,
        Old gran'ma cried,
        And gran'pa cried,
        And wife, she cried,
        And I—yes, I cried, too!

      It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place,
      With his everlastin' crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face;
      The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere,
      And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care!
      No matter what our trouble is, when he begins to coo,
        Old gran'ma laughs,
        And gran'pa laughs,
        Wife, she laughs,
        And I—you bet, I laugh, too!

      So, so, rock-a-by so!
      Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;
      And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,
      And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek
      And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies
      In the beautiful garden way up in the skies
      Which you seek.
      Now mind these three kisses wherever you go—
      So, so, rock-a-by so!

      There's one little fumfay who lives there, I know,
      For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;
      I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,
      I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek.
      And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise
      When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies
      Which you seek.
      Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe—
      So, so, rock-a-by so!

      And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,
      Don't forget mother who loveth you so!
      And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,
      And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,
      And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies
      Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies
      Which you seek—
      The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow—
      So, so, rock-a-by so!

      A sunbeam comes a-creeping
      Into my dear one's nest,
      And sings to our babe a-sleeping
      The song that I love the best:
      "'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning—
      'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;
      And all day long
      'T is the same sweet song
      Of that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite,
      Luddy-Dud."

      The bird to the tossing clover,
      The bee to the swaying bud,
      Keep singing that sweet song over
      Of wee little Luddy-Dud.
      "'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning—
      'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;
      And all day long
      'T is the same dear song
      Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite,
      Luddy-Dud."

      Luddy-Dud's cradle is swinging
      Where softly the night winds blow,
      And Luddy-Dud's mother is singing
      A song that is sweet and low:
      "'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning—
      'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;
      And all day long
      'T is the same sweet song
      Of my nearest and my dearest heart's delight,
      Luddy-Dud!"

      The gingham dog and the calico cat
      Side by side on the table sat;
      'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
      Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!
      The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
      Appeared to know as sure as fate
      There was going to be a terrible spat.
      (I wasn't there; I simply state
      What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

      The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"
      And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!"
      The air was littered, an hour or so,
      With bits of gingham and calico,
      While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place
      Up with its hands before its face,
      For it always dreaded a family row!
      (Now mind: I'm only telling you
      What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

      The Chinese plate looked very blue,
      And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
      But the gingham dog and the calico cat
      Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
      Employing every tooth and claw
      In the awfullest way you ever saw—
      And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
      (Don't fancy I exaggerate—
      I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

      Next morning, where the two had sat
      They found no trace of dog or cat;
      And some folks think unto this day
      That burglars stole that pair away!
      But the truth about the cat and pup
      Is this: they ate each other up!
      Now what do you really think of that!
      (The old Dutch clock it told me so,
      And that is how I came to know.)

      There's a dear little home in Good-Children street—
      My heart turneth fondly to-day
      Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet
      Make sweetest of music at play;
      Where the sunshine of love illumines each face
      And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.

      For dear little children go romping about
      With dollies and tin tops and drums,
      And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout
      Till bedtime too speedily comes!
      Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
      With little folk living in Good-Children street.

      See, here comes an army with guns painted red,
      And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;
      The captain rides gaily and proudly ahead
      On a stick-horse that prances and snorts!
      Oh, legions of soldiers you're certain to meet—
      Nice make-believe soldiers—in Good-Children street.

      And yonder Odette wheels her dolly about—
      Poor dolly! I'm sure she is ill,
      For one of her blue china eyes has dropped out
      And her voice is asthmatic'ly shrill.
      Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet,
      Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street.

      'T is so the dear children go romping about
      With dollies and banners and drums,
      And I venture to say they are sadly put out
      When an end to their jubilee comes:
      Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet
      With little folk living in Good-Children street!

      But when falleth night over river and town,
      Those little folk vanish from sight,
      And an angel all white from the sky cometh down
      And guardeth the babes through the night,
      And singeth her lullabies tender and sweet
      To the dear little people in Good-Children Street.

      Though elsewhere the world be o'erburdened with care,
      Though poverty fall to my lot,
      Though toil and vexation be always my share,
      What care I—they trouble me not!
      This thought maketh life ever joyous and Sweet:
      There's a dear little home in Good-Children street.

      Up yonder in Buena Park
      There is a famous spot,
      In legend and in history
      Yclept the Waller Lot.

      There children play in daytime
      And lovers stroll by dark,
      For 't is the goodliest trysting-place
      In all Buena Park.

      Once on a time that beauteous maid,
      Sweet little Sissy Knott,
      Took out her pretty doll to walk
      Within the Waller Lot.

      While thus she fared, from Ravenswood
      Came Injuns o'er the plain,
      And seized upon that beauteous maid
      And rent her doll in twain.

      Oh, 't was a piteous thing to hear
      Her lamentations wild;
      She tore her golden curls and cried:
      "My child! My child! My child!"

      Alas, what cared those Injun chiefs
      How bitterly wailed she?
      They never had been mothers,
      And they could not hope to be!

      "Have done with tears," they rudely quoth,
      And then they bound her hands;
      For they proposed to take her off
      To distant border lands.

      But, joy! from Mr. Eddy's barn
      Doth Willie Clow behold
      The sight that makes his hair rise up
      And all his blood run cold.

      He put his fingers in his mouth
      And whistled long and clear,
      And presently a goodly horde
      Of cow-boys did appear.

      Cried Willie Clow: "My comrades bold,
      Haste to the Waller Lot,
      And rescue from that Injun band
      Our charming Sissy Knott!"

      "Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw,
      But smite them hide and hair!
      Spare neither sex nor age nor size,
      And no condition spare!"

      Then sped that cow-boy band away,
      Full of revengeful wrath,
      And Kendall Evans rode ahead
      Upon a hickory lath.

      And next came gallant Dady Field
      And Willie's brother Kent,
      The Eddy boys and Robbie James,
      On murderous purpose bent.

      For they were much beholden to
      That maid—in sooth, the lot
      Were very, very much in love
      With charming Sissy Knott.

      What wonder? She was beauty's queen,
      And good beyond compare;
      Moreover, it was known she was
      Her wealthy father's heir!

      Now when the Injuns saw that band
      They trembled with affright,
      And yet they thought the cheapest thing
      To do was stay and fight.

      So sturdily they stood their ground,
      Nor would their prisoner yield,
      Despite the wrath of Willie Clow
      And gallant Dady Field.

      Oh, never fiercer battle raged
      Upon the Waller Lot,
      And never blood more freely flowed
      Than flowed for Sissy Knott!

      An Injun chief of monstrous size
      Got Kendall Evans down,
      And Robbie James was soon o'erthrown
      By one of great renown.

      And Dady Field was sorely done,
      And Willie Clow was hurt,
      And all that gallant cow-boy band
      Lay wallowing in the dirt.

      But still they strove with might and main
      Till all the Waller Lot
      Was strewn with hair and gouts of gore—
      All, all for Sissy Knott!

      Then cried the maiden in despair:
      "Alas, I sadly fear
      The battle and my hopes are lost,
      Unless some help appear!"

      Lo, as she spoke, she saw afar
      The rescuer looming up—
      The pride of all Buena Park,
      Clow's famous yellow pup!

      "Now, sick'em, Don," the maiden cried,
      "Now, sick'em, Don!" cried she;
      Obedient Don at once complied—
      As ordered, so did he.

      He sicked'em all so passing well
      That, overcome by fright,
      The Indian horde gave up the fray
      And safety sought in flight.

      They ran and ran and ran and ran
      O'er valley, plain, and hill;
      And if they are not walking now,
      Why, then, they're running still.

      The cow-boys rose up from the dust
      With faces black and blue;
      "Remember, beauteous maid," said they,
      "We've bled and died for you!"

      "And though we suffer grievously,
      We gladly hail the lot
      That brings us toils and pains and wounds
      For charming Sissy Knott!"

      But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept,
      And still her fate reviled;
      For who could patch her dolly up—
      Who, who could mend her child?

      Then out her doting mother came,
      And soothed her daughter then;
      "Grieve not, my darling, I will sew
      Your dolly up again!"

      Joy soon succeeded unto grief,
      And tears were soon dried up,
      And dignities were heaped upon
      Clow's noble yellow pup.

      Him all that goodly company
      Did as deliverer hail—
      They tied a ribbon round his neck,
      Another round his tail.

      And every anniversary day
      Upon the Waller Lot
      They celebrate the victory won
      For charming Sissy Knott.

      And I, the poet of these folk,
      Am ordered to compile
      This truly famous history
      In good old ballad style.

      Which having done as to have earned
      The sweet rewards of fame,
      In what same style I did begin
      I now shall end the same.

      So let us sing: Long live the King,
      Long live the Queen and Jack,
      Long live the ten-spot and the ace,
      And also all the pack.

      Last night the Stork came stalking,
      And, Stork, beneath your wing
      Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber,
      The tiniest little thing!
      From Babyland, out yonder
      Beside a silver sea,
      You brought a priceless treasure
      As gift to mine and me!

      Last night my dear one listened—
      And, wife, you knew the cry—
      The dear old Stork has sought our home
      A many times gone by!
      And in your gentle bosom
      I found the pretty thing
      That from the realm out yonder
      Our friend the Stork did bring.

      Last night a babe awakened,
      And, babe, how strange and new
      Must seem the home and people
      The Stork has brought you to;
      And yet methinks you like them—
      You neither stare nor weep,
      But closer to my dear one
      You cuddle, and you sleep!

      Last night my heart grew fonder—
      O happy heart of mine,
      Sing of the inspirations
      That round my pathway shine!
      And sing your sweetest love-song
      To this dear nestling wee
      The Stork from 'Way-Out-Yonder
      Hath brought to mine and me!