Almost any man can say it,
Can say, 'Baby, go to bed;'
But how many can enforce it
When a little tousle-head
Perks his head up sort of sideways
In the way we daddies know
And says, half a smile, half tearful
'Papa, me don't 'ants to doe.'

And pleads: 'Me ain't s'eepy, papa,
Me don't 'ants to doe to bed.'
And you see the curls a-tumble
On the little baby head;
And you look up at his mother
In a deprecating way,
And you hide behind your paper
And you let the baby play.

Yes, most any dad can say it,
Can say, 'Baby, go to bed,'
But how many can enforce it
When a little tousle-head
Says: 'I'ms busy now a-p'ayin,'
Whispers soft, 'Don't papa know?'
Saying, 'I'ms ain't s'eepy, papa,'
Pleading, 'I'm don't 'ants to doe.'