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.
