TO ALFRED,

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.