English poem
The Feast Of The Doll
by Nora Archibald Smith (1859–1934)
In flow’ry Japan, the home of the fan, The land of the parasol, Each month has its feast, from greatest to least, And March is the Feast of the Doll-doll-doll, And March is the Feast of the Doll.
The wee, slippered maid in gown of brocade, The baby with shaven poll, The little brown lad in embroidery clad, All troop to the Feast of the Doll-doll-doll, All troop to the Feast of the Doll.
How pleasant ’twould be, ’neath an almond-tree, In sunshine and perfume to loll, Forget our own spring, with its wind and its sting, And sing to the praise of the Doll-doll-doll, And sing to the praise of the Doll!
Come, sweet Tippytoes, as pink as a rose, And white as a cotton-boll, Let us follow the plan of the folk in Japan, And dance for your Feast, little Doll-doll-doll, And dance for your Feast, little Doll.