Little eyelids, cease your winking;
Little orbs, forget to beam;
Little soul, to slumber sinking,
Let the fairies rule your dream.
Breezes, through the lattice sweeping,
Sing their lullabies the while--
And a star-ray, softly creeping
To thy bedside, woos thy smile.
But no song nor ray entrancing
Can allure thee from the spell
Of the tiny fairies dancing
O'er the eyes they love so well.
See, we come in countless number--
I, their queen, and all my court--
Haste, my precious one, to slumber
Which invites our fairy sport.
"At the conclusion of this song Prince Whimwham, a tidy little
gentleman fairy in pink silk small-clothes, approaching Queen Taffie
and bowing graciously, would say:
Pray, lady, may I have the pleasure
Of leading you this stately measure?
To which her majesty would reply with equal graciousness in the
affirmative. Then Prince Whimwham and Queen Taffie would take their
places on one of my master's eyelids, and the other gentleman fairies
and lady fairies would follow their example, till at last my master's
face would seem to be alive with these delightful little beings. The
mosquitos would blow a shrill blast on their trumpets, the orchestra
would strike up, and then the festivities would begin in earnest. How
the bumblebees would drone, how the wasps would buzz, and how the
mosquitos would blare! It was a delightful harmony of weird sounds.
The strange little dancers floated hither and thither over my master's
baby face, as light as thistledowns, and as graceful as the slender
plumes they wore in their hats and bonnets. Presently they would weary
of dancing, and then the minstrels would be commanded to entertain
them. Invariably the flea, who was a rattle-headed fellow, would
discourse some such incoherent song as this: