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(23 September 1783 – 13 April 1824 / Colchester, England)

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Little Girls Must Not Fret

What is it that makes little Emily cry?
Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye:
There­ -- lay down your head on my bosom­ -- that's right,
And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night.

What! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play?
Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away;
But do not be fretful, my darling; you know
Mamma cannot love little girls that are so.

She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there­
Ah! here's her sweet smile come again, I declare:
That's right, for I thought you quite naughty before.
Good night, my dear child, but don't fret any more.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003


Read poems about / on: child, smile, night, girl, children

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