A doll in the doll-maker’s house

Looks at the cradle and bawls:

“That is an insult to us.”

But the oldest of all the dolls,

Who had seen, being kept for show,

Generations of his sort,

Out-screams the whole shelf: “Although

There’s not a man can report

Evil of this place,

The man and the woman bring

Hither, to our disgrace,

A noisy and filthy thing.”

Hearing him groan and stretch

The doll-maker’s wife is aware

Her 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, O dear,

It was an accident.”