O, Alfred dear, thou wilt, I fear, Get burned before‘ tis long; Thy little tricks with fiery sticks Have called forth this my song.
That roguish eye seems to defy All I can say or do. Thy chubby face does not disgrace The food thou art used to.
Come now, my boy, thy skill employ In walking to Papa; Well, now, my child, I own I smiled To see thee choose thy Ma.
But still I will that thou fulfill My just commands to thee; Sometime I shall soon make thee squall For disobeying me!
And now a walk or else some talk I do insist upon; But mind that chair or thou wilt fare Not cry well, my son!
Thy limbs are strong, so do n't be long, Nor mind that little mountain; Ah, down he goes! and out there flows Big tear-drops from their fountain.
Fear not, my son, thou hast well done; I'll wipe thy tears away, And lie in hopes on Life's rough slopes Thou wilt not go astray.
Now come again, I can n't refrain From tuning one more trial; Do n't stagger on so woe-begone, But use some self-denial.
Thou wilt have need if thou succeed In life, to use it often, And I have found in moving round It does life's trials soften.
Mind thou the stove! nor further rove, For fear thou get a burning Let not thine eyes in such surprise Upon thy Pa be turning.
See, there at last thou hast got past The dangers which beset thee, So in my arms, proud of thy charms, I'll hug thee if thou let me.
I fain would hope that thou wilt cope With ills besetting mortals, Depending on God's Arm alone, And so reach Heaven's portals.
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