Classic Poem

Our little Lucy was a tease,
A curly-headed bother,
And yet she couldn't help but please
Kind-hearted old grandfather.
He shared her sorrow and her play,
And was her faithful slave all day,
From early morn till bedtime.

She had him up and dressed before
The humble bees were humming,
And kept him wide awake till o'er
The lea the cows were coming.
Such walks they took! such romps they had!
That little rogue was never glad
When darkness came and bedtime.

But when the summer twilight fell
On wood and fragrant meadow,
And sleepily old Blossom's bell
Clanged in the purple shadow,
Grandfather'd seek his big arm-chair
And call from 'neath the hopvines there:
— Come Lucy, dear, it's bedtime. —

Into his lap she'd scramble fast,
And there with sleep would wrestle,
Until the curly head at last
Would on his bosom nestle.
How gently have I seen him rise
And say, with love in voice and eyes,
— Mamma, it's Lucy's bedtime. —

One night he called her not; but still
And motionless was sitting,
Though cried the plaintive whippo'will,
And bats went dimly flitting.
But when the red moon fired the dew,
Across the lawn to him she flew
With, — Grandpa, why, it's bedtime. —

Oh, Youth and Age! Oh, Death and Life!
One stopped and one beginning;
This side and that of all the strife,
The praying and the sinning.
Mother, with startled cry, draws near,
Then murmurs, half in awe, half fear:
— Ah, yes, my child, it's bedtime. —