What is it that makes little Emily cry? 
Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye: 
There­ -- lay down your head on my bosom­ -- that's right,
And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night. 

What! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play? 
Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away; 
But do not be fretful, my darling; you know
Mamma cannot love little girls that are so. 

She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there­
Ah! here's her sweet smile come again, I declare:
That's right, for I thought you quite naughty before. 
Good night, my dear child, but don't fret any more.