Won't Take A Baff by Margaret Eytinge

To the brook in the green meadow dancing,

The tree-shaded, grass-bordered brook,

For a bath in its cool, limpid water,

Old Dinah the baby boy took.

She drew off his cunning wee stockings,

Unbuttoned each dainty pink shoe,

Untied the white slip and small apron,

And loosened his petticoats, too.

And while Master Blue Eyes undressing,

She told him in quaintest of words

Of the showers that came to the flowers,

Of the rills that were baths for the birds.

And she said, "Dis yere sweetest of babies,

W'en he's washed, jess as hansum'll be

As any red, yaller or blue bird

Dat ebber singed up in a tree.

"An' sweeter den rosies an' lilies,

Or wiolets eder, I guess—"

When away flew the mischievous darling,

In the scantiest kind of a dress.

"Don't care if the birdies an' fowers,"

He shouted, with clear, ringing laugh,

"Wash 'eir hands an' 'eir faces forebber

An' ebber, me won't take a baff."