Let poets praise, as in days gone by,
The wealth of a loving maiden's sigh;
The bliss ecstatic of every bride,
And honeymoon pleasures that ne'er subside;
I sing of a happier time than those,
The time when making the baby's clothes.
A girlish heart may o'erflow with joy
When with the one she would call “her boy,”
And a doting wife may fail to cloy
A heart kept free from every alloy;
But joys surpassing the sweetest of those
Come when preparing the baby's clothes.