Mother

When at play

With my dolls alone,

I live the way

I will when I'm grown;

Real butter, fresh eggs,

Vegetables a store:

No doll of mine begs

In vain for some more.

I have sweets, oh, so tasty,

Made by my own hands;

Though I don't make much pastry,

What I make is real grand.

My dolls are dressed well -

Not fine, but trim and warm;

Sound shoes to prevent chill,

So that they come to no harm.

My home, though not rich,

Is cosy and neat;

It smells sweet and clean

Like a babe's rosy feet.

I try my dolls' childhood,

To make free with joy, full:

We oft go to the wildwood,

And oft, where jaunts the seagull.

But my Mummy and Dad,

My brothers, sisters and me,

Are not half so well off

As Fancy makes my dolls be:

Though Mum and Dad strive,

I know it's in vain:

In two rooms we hive,

Through which comes the rain:

Our stomachs are empty,

Our feet are ill-shod:

I wonder if God above

Knows our limbs are ill-clad.