"‘’Twas midnight; not a sound was heard
Within the'"—"Papa! won't 'ou 'ook
An' see my pooty 'ittle house? I wis' 'ou wouldn't wead 'ou book"—
"'Within the palace, where the king
Upon his couch in anguish lay'"—
"Papa! Pa.-pa! I wis' 'ou'd tum
An' have a 'ittle tonty play"—
"'No gentle hand was there to bring
The cooling draught, or bathe his brow; His courtiers and his pages gone'"— "Turn, papa, turn ; I want 'ou now"—
Down goes the book with needless force, And, with expression far from mild, With sullen air and clouded brow, I seat myself beside the child.
Her little trusting eyes of blue
With mute surprise gaze in my face, As if in its expression stern Reproof and censure she could trace.
Anon her little bosom heaves, Her rosy lips begin to curl; And with a quiv'ring chin she sobs, "Papa don't 'uv' his 'ittle dirl!"
King, palace, book—all are forgot; My arms are 'round my darling thrown- The thunder-cloud has burst, and lo! Tears fall and mingle with her own.