I’VE a sweet little pet; she is up with the lark,
And at eve she’s asleep when the valleys are dark,
And she chatters and dances the blessed day long,
Now laughing in gladness, now singing a song.
She never is silent; the whole summer day
She is off on the green with the blossoms at play;
Now seeking a buttercup, plucking a rose,
Or laughing aloud at the thistle she blows.
She never is still; now at some merry elf
You’ll smile as you watch her, in spite of yourself;
You may chide her in vain, for those eyes, full of fun,
Are smiling in mirth at the mischief she’s done;
And whatever you do, that same thing, without doubt,
Must the mischievous Annie be busied about;
She’s as brown as a nut, but a beauty to me,
And there’s nothing her keen little eyes cannot see.
She dances and sings, and has many sweet airs;
And to infant accomplishments adding her prayers,
I have told everything that the darling can do,
For ’twas only last summer her years numbered two.
She’s the picture of health, and a southern-born thing
Just as ready to weep as she’s ready to sing,
And I fain would be foe to lip that hath smiled
At this wee bit of song of the
dear little child.