Beneath the eaves there is another chair,
And a bruised lily lies upon the walk,
With the bright drops still clinging to its stalk.
Whose careless hand has dropped its treasure there?
And whose small form does that frail settee bear?
Whose are that wooden shepherdess and flock,
That noble coach with steeds that never balk?
And why the gate that tops the cottage-stair?
Ah! he has now a rival for her love,
A chubby-cheeked, soft-fisted Don Juan,
Who rules with iron hand in velvet glove
Mother and sire, as only Baby can.
See! there they romp, the mother and her boy,
He on her shoulders perched and wild with joy.