Song Of The Mother Whose Children Are Fond Of Drawing
Oh, could I find the forest
Where the pencil-trees grow!
Oh, might I see their stately stems
All standing in a row!
I’d hie me to their grateful shade;
In deep, in deepest bliss;
For then I need not hourly hear
A chorus such as this:
Chorus. Oh, lend me a pencil, please, Mamma!
Oh, draw me some houses and trees, Mamma!
Oh, make me a floppy
Great poppy to copy,
And a horsey that prances and gees, Mamma!
The branches of the pencil-tree
Are pointed every one;
Ay! each one has a glancing point
That glitters in the sun.
The leaves are leaves of paper white,
All fluttering in the breeze;
Ah! could I pluck one rustling bough,
I’d silence cries like these:
Chorus. Oh, lend me a pencil, do, Mamma!
I’ve got mine all stuck in the glue, Mamma!
Oh, make me a pretty
Big barn and a city,
And a cow and a steam-engine too, Mamma!
The fruit upon the pencil-tree
Hangs ripening in the sun,
In clusters bright of pocket-knives,—
Three blades to every one.
Ah! might I pluck one shining fruit,
And plant it by my door,
The pleading cries, the longing sighs,
Would trouble me no more.
Chorus. Oh, sharpen a pencil for me, Mamma!
’Cause Johnny and Baby have three, Mamma!
And this isn’t fine!
And Hal sat down on mine!
So do it bee-yu-ti-ful-lee, Mamma!