I take them up at morning, and I put them down at night,
The large one, and the small one, and the rest;
The one that came from London-town, the one from bright Japan,
The pretty Paris lady with the fluffy feather fan,
And the weary, dreary one I love the best;
I take them up with smiling, and I put them down with sighs,
And I smooth their hair with loving and with pride,
When I put them in the cradle, at the paling of the skies,
I sing my very softest at their side.
O, a boy may have a fife and gun, a boy may have a drum,
A boy may have a helmet with a plume;
And a boy may go a-marching all around the house with shouts,
And set the echoes ringing in a room;
But dolls were made for girls, I guess, and here before the fire,
I rock them, rock them, rock them to their rest;
The one that came from London-town, the one from bright Japan,
The pretty Paris lady with the fluffy feather fan,
The nodding one that shuts its eyes as sleepy babies can,
And the weary, dreary one I love the best.
