Our Helen is a 'perfect love'
Of a blue-eyed baby;
When she's grown she'll be a belle,
And a 'Venus,' may be.

Such a cunning little mouth,
Lips as red as cherry,
And she smiles on all around
In a way so merry.

Laughs, and crows, and claps her hands,
Springs, and hops, and dances,
As if her little brain overflowed
With lively, tripping fancies.

Then she'll arch her pretty neck,
And toss her head so queenly,
And, when she's weary, fall asleep
And slumber so serenely.

She has a cunning kind of way
Of looking sly and witty,
As if to say, in baby words,
'I know I'm very pretty.'

She bites her 'mammy,' scratches 'nurse,'
And makes droll mouths at 'pappy;'
We can but love the roguish thing,
She looks so bright and happy.

The dinner-table seems to be
The crown of all her wishes,
For there the gypsy's sure to have
A hand in all the dishes.

But why should we essay to sing
Her thousand sprightly graces?
She has the merriest of ways,
The prettiest of faces.

We know she'll grow a peerless one,
With skin all white and pearly;
And laughing eyes, and auburn locks,
All silky, soft and curly.

Her baby laugh and sportive glee,
Her spirit's airy lightness,
Surround the pleasant prairie home
With hues of magic brightness.