Ho! little girl, so dressed with care!
With fairy slippers and golden hair!
What did I hear you calling so loud,
Down in that heartless, motley crowd?
’Tis my father’s song,
And he can’t live long;
Every one knows that he wrote it;
For I’ve been down at the hotel door,
And all the gentlemen bought it.
Ho! little girl, what makes you cry?
Come, dry up the tears in that bright blue eye!
What is all this that is blowing around,
All solled and scattered and strewn on the ground.