(4 November 1872 - 1934 / Scotia, Lake Erie, Ontario)

Lesley

From the little bald head to the two little feet,
You are winsome, and bonnie, and tender, and sweet,
But not for this do I love you.

You're wilful, cajoling, not fond of restraint,
A creature of moods-no tiresome saint-
You're wise and you're wistful, and oh, you are quaint,
But not for this do I love you.

You're a rose of a maiden, the pink and the white
Of your face is to me a rare thing of delight,
But not for this do I love you.

That 'agoo' on your lips is the tenderest thing,
And the eyes smiling at me, ye bonnie wee thing,
Are violets washed with the dewdrops of spring,
But not for this do I love you.

Come, nestle down close on my bosom, you dear,
The secret I'll whisper right into your ear,
Because you are you do I love you,

Because you are you, just you, oh, my own,
Because you are Lesley, this reason alone
Will do for us, darling, until you are grown,
Because you are you do I love you.

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