Oft in the Stilly Night

Baby and I in the weary night Are taking a walk for his delight; I drowsily stumble o’er stool and chair And clasp the babe with grim despair, For he’s got the colic And paregoric Don’t seem to ease my squalling heir.

Baby and I in the morning gray Are griping and squalling and walking away— The fire’s gone out and I nearly freeze— There’s a smell of peppermint on the breeze. Then Mamma wakes And baby takes And says, “Now cook the breakfast, please.”

❦