The Dolls

A doll in the doll-maker's houseLooks at the cradle and balls:'That is an insult to us.'But the oldest of all the dollsWho had seen, being kept for show,Generations of his sort,Out-screams the whole shelf: 'AlthoughThere's not a man can reportEvil of this place,The man and the woman bringHither to our disgrace,A noisy and filthy thing.'Hearing him groan and stretchThe doll-maker's wife is awareHer husband has heard the wretch,And crouched by the arm of his chair,

She murmurs into his ear,Head upon shoulder leant:'My dear, my dear, oh dear,It was an accident.'