A doll in the doll-maker‘s house

    Looks at the cradle and bawls¹：

    ‘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 filthy² thing.‘

    Hearing him groan³ and stretch

    The doll-maker‘s wife is aware

    Her husband has heard the wretch⁴，

    And crouched⁵ by the arm of his chair，

    She murmurs⁶ into his ear，

    Head upon shoulder leant：

    ‘My dear， my dear， O dear，

    It was an accident.‘

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