“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and wipe your feet upon the mat, And do not slam the door and wake the baby, William, and please take This package down to Howe and Hatch and tell them that it doesn’t match, And don’t forget to hurry back, because the kitchen fire is slack”; And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my ear Come floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.
I’m married now--at man’s estate, and yet, quite mournful to relate, My wife it is who, as before, comes with me to the new front door, And standing there, bombards me for a block or two, and o’er and o’er:
“Oh, William, don’t you wet your feet, and William, don’t forget the meat, And William, don’t forget to mail my letter promptly, and don’t fail To pay the ice bill, order wood; and William, would you be so good As to stop in at Jones’s store and get a bit of ribbon for The baby’s hair?”--and so ’tis yet--lest I forget--lest I forget!
To my fancy, idly roaming, comes a picture of the gloaming, Comes a fragrance from the blossoms of the lilac and the rose; With the yellow lamplight streaming I am sitting here and dreaming Of a half-forgotten twilight whence a mellow memory flows; To my listening ears come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing, I’ve a sense of sweet contentment as the sounds are borne along; ’Tis a mother who is tuning her fond heart to love and crooning To her laddie such a Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.
Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and ember The old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow; With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender, Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago. There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roaming Through the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along; Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleeping When she sings to him that Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.
I am sitting here and dreaming with the mellow lamplight streaming Through the vine-embowered window in a yellow filigree; On the fragrant air come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing, ’Tis the slumber song of childhood that is murmuring to me; And some subtle fancy creeping lulls my senses half to sleeping As the misty shapes of bugaboos go dreamily along, All my sorrows disappearing, as a tired lad I’m hearing Once again my mother’s Sleepy little, Creepy little, Song.