Polly

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Brown eyes,
  Straight nose;
  Dirt pies,
  Rumpled clothes;

  Torn books,
  Spoilt toys;
  Arch looks,
  Unlike a boy's;

  Little rages,
  Obvious arts;
  (Three her age is,)
  Cakes, tarts;

  Falling down
  Off chairs;
  Breaking crown
  Down stairs;

  Catching flies
  On the pane;
  Deep sighs,-
  Cause not plain.

  Bribing you
  With kisses
  For a few
  Farthing blisses;

  Wide awake,
  As you hear,
  "Mercy's sake,
  Quiet, dear!"

  New shoes,
  New frock;
  Vague views
  Of what's o'clock

  When it's time
  To go to bed,
  And scorn sublime
  Of what is said;

  Folded hands,
  Saying prayers,
  Understands
  Not, nor cares;

  Thinks it odd,
  Smiles away;
  Yet may God
  Hear her pray!

  Bedgown white,
  Kiss Dolly;
  Good-night!-
  That's Polly,

  Fast asleep,
  As you see;
  Heaven keep
  My girl for me!

© William Brighty Rands