Rosemary has of dolls a dozen,
 Yet she disdains them all;
While Marie Rose, her pauper cousin
 Has just an old rag doll.
But you should see her mother it,
 And with her kisses smother it.

A twist of twill, a hank of hair,
 Fit for the rubbish bin;
How Rosemary with scorn would stare
 At its pathetic grin!
Yet Marie Rose can lover it,
 And with her kisses cover it.

Rosemary is a pampered pet;
 She sniffs a dainty nose
Of scorn at ragged dolls, and yet
 My love's with Marie Rose,
In garret corner shy and sweet,
 With rag doll Marguerite.

Though kin they are, a gulf will grow
 Between them with the years;
For one a life of love will know,
 The other toil and tears:
Perhaps that shabby rag doll knows
 The rue of Marie Rose.