Little Girls Must Not Fret

WHAT is it that makes little Emily cry?

Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye:

There–lay down your head on my bosom–that's right,

And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night.

What! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play?

Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away;

But do not be fretful, my darling; you know

Mamma cannot love little girls that are so.

She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there–

Ah! here's her sweet smile come again, I declare:

That's right, for I thought you quite naughty before.

Good night, my dear child, but don't fret any more.