Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, And joy of summer--where are they? The grim old man still standeth near Crooning the song of a far-off year; And into the winter I come alone, Cheered by that mournful requiem, Soothed by the dolorous monotone That shall count me off as it counted them-- The solemn voice of old Father Time Chanting the homely nursery rime He learned of the children a summer morn When, with “apple-seed and apple-thorn,” Life was full of the dulcet cheer That bringeth the grace of heaven anear-- The sound of the little ones hard at play-- Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE All day long they come and go-- Pittypat and Tippytoe; Footprints up and down the hall, Playthings scattered on the floor, Finger-marks along the wall, Tell-tale smudges on the door-- By these presents you shall know Pittypat and Tippytoe. How they riot at their play! And a dozen times a day In they troop, demanding bread-- Only buttered bread will do, And that butter must be spread Inches thick with sugar too! And I never can say “No, Pittypat and Tippytoe!” Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; For (I much regret to say) Tippytoe and Pittypat Sometimes interrupt their play With an internecine spat; Fie, for shame! to quarrel so-- Pittypat and Tippytoe! Oh the thousand worrying things Every day recurrent brings! Hands to scrub and hair to brush, Search for playthings gone amiss, Many a wee complaint to hush, Many a little bump to kiss; Life seems one vain, fleeting show To Pittypat and Tippytoe! And when day is at an end, There are little duds to mend: Little frocks are strangely torn, Little shoes great holes reveal, Little hose, but one day worn, Rudely yawn at toe and heel! Who but _you_ could work such woe, Pittypat and Tippytoe? But when comes this thought to me: “Some there are that childless be,” Stealing to their little beds, With a love I cannot speak, Tenderly I stroke their heads-- Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. God help those who do not know A Pittypat or Tippytoe! On the floor and down the hall, Rudely smutched upon the wall, There are proofs in every kind Of the havoc they have wrought, And upon my heart you’d find Just such trade-marks, if you sought; Oh, how glad I am ’tis so, Pittypat and Tippytoe! BALOW, MY BONNIE Hush, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder will rocke her sweete,-- Balow, my boy! When that his toile ben done, Daddie will come anone,-- Hush thee, my lyttel one; Balow, my boy!