The Mother by the Cradle

Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure;
Thy father’s very miniature!
That art thou, though thy father goes
And says that thou hast not his nose.

This very moment here was he,
His face o’er thine did pose
And said--Much has he sure of me,
But no, ‘tis not my nose.

I think myself, it is too small,
But it is _his_ nose after all;
For if thy nose his nose be not,
Whence came the nose that thou hast got?

Sleep, boy! thy father only chose
To tease me--that’s his part!
Never you mind about his nose,
But see you have his heart.