The Doll’s Wooing
The little French doll was a dear little dollTricked out in the sweetest of dresses;Her eyes were of hueA most delicate blueAnd dark as the night were her tresses;Her dear little mouth was fluted and red,And this little French doll was so very well bredThat whenever accosted her little mouth said“Mamma! mamma!”
The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg,Had once been a handsome young fellow;But now he appearedRather frowzy and blearedIn his torn regimentals of yellow;Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he layIn the little toy cart near the window one dayAnd heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say:“Mamma! mamma!”
He listened so long and he listened so hardThat anon he grew ever so tender,For it’s everywhere knownThat the feminine toneGets away with all masculine gender!He up and he wooed her with soldierly zestBut all she’d reply to the love he professedWere these plaintive words (which perhaps you have guessed):“Mamma! mamma!”
Her mother—a sweet little lady of five—Vouchsafed her parental protection,And although stockinetWasn’t blue-blooded, yetShe really could make no objection!So soldier and dolly were wedded one day,And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way,I’m sure that I heard a wee baby voice say:“Mamma! mamma!”