ROLY-POLY.

Roly-Poly is three years old,

Three years old, and a trifle over:

Roly-Poly is round as a ball,

Jolly as larks, and sweet as clover.

Roly-Poly has stars for eyes,

A heavenly chin with a dimple in it,

Peaches for cheeks, the bud of a nose,

And a tongue that is never still a minute.

Roly-Poly gets up in the morning,--

Morning, quoth I? it's the crack of the dawn!--

Dresses himself in a boot and a stocking,

Flies to his sister as swift as a fawn.

Pulls at her eyes with his fat little fingers,--

Crazy for stories, that's all the matter!--

"Oh! I am sleepy and cross," she cries;

"You, Roly-Poly, disperse and scatter!"

But Roly-Poly's a resolute tyrant;

Father and mother are captives wholly:

So what can a poor big sister do

But yield to a king like Roly-Poly.

Roly-Poly's a man of business:

He canters to market on grandpa's cane,

Orders a breakfast of peppermint-candy,

And gallops his pony home again.

Roly-Poly's a man of pleasure:

Sorrow and care are for grown-up stupids:

Pictures and kisses, toys and caresses,

Fondling and fun, for dimpled Cupids.

After the sun has gone out of the south,

The night comes down on his eyelids slowly;

He topples asleep with his thumb in his mouth,--

What an iniquity, Roly-Poly!