Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo? Sunset still a-shinin' in de wes'; Sky am full o' windehs an' de stahs am peepin' froo-- Eb'ryt'ing but mammy's lamb at res'. Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'lan', Swing 'im to'ds de Souf-- See dat dove a-comin' wif a olive in 'is mouf! Angel hahps a-hummin', Angel banjos strummin'-- Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo? Cricket fiddleh scrapin' off de rozzum f'um 'is bow, Whippo'will a-mo'nin' on a lawg; Moon ez pale ez hit kin be a-risin' mighty slow-- Stahtled at de bahkin' ob de dawg; Swing de baby Eas'way, Swing de baby Wes', Swing 'im to'ds de Souflan' whah de melon grow de bes'! Angel singers singin', Angel bells a-ringin', Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo? Eyelids des a-droopin' li'l loweh all de w'ile, Undeh lip a-saggin' des a mite; Li'l baby toofies showin' so't o' lak a smile, Whiteh dan de snow, or des ez white. Swing 'im to'ds de No'flan', Swing 'im to'ds de Eas'-- Woolly cloud a-comin' fo' t' wrap 'im in 'is fleece! Angel ban' a-playin'-- Whut dat music sayin'? "Sleep, mah li'l pigeon, don' yo' heah yo' mammy coo?" MY SWEETHEART BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK Her height? Perhaps you'd deem her tall-- To be exact, just five feet seven. Her arching feet are not too small; Her gleaming eyes are bits of heaven. Slim are her hands, yet not too wee-- I could not fancy useless fingers, Her hands are all that hands should be, And own a touch whose memory lingers. The hue that lights her oval cheeks Recalls the pink that tints a cherry; Upon her chin a dimple speaks, A disposition blithe and merry. Her laughter ripples like a brook; Its sound a heart of stone would soften. Though sweetness shines in every look, Her laugh is never loud, nor often. Though golden locks have won renown With bards, I never heed their raving; The girl I love hath locks of brown, Not tightly curled, but gently waving. Her mouth?--Perhaps you'd term it large-- Is firmly molded, full and curving; Her quiet lips are Cupid's charge, But in the cause of truth unswerving. Though little of her neck is seen, That little is both smooth and sightly; And fair as marble is its sheen Above her bodice gleaming whitely. Her nose is just the proper size, Without a trace of upward turning. Her shell-like ears are wee and wise, The tongue of scandal ever spurning.