My Little Doll

Poem By Charles Kingsley

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.

From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.

Comments about My Little Doll

I loved this poem when I was a child, and my Mother and I used to recite, she loved it too. I have been looking for the poem for years that was in our School reader. I am now 76, ! but my mum has passed on.
I too have fond memories of this poem from a book of children's poems given to me by my great aunt. It reminds me summer holidays at her house in the late 1950s. I didn't realise it came from the" water Babies"
The most Beautiful Doll in The World As a very young girl , I learnt this poem. To- day it still evokes, emotions that I had all those 65 years past.
It's a lovely poem about the most beautiful doll in the world. It was lost and subsequently found devoid of its original charm. Yet it was the best doll. Emotionally captivating. nice, a beautiful story of lost and foumd ★

Rating Card

2,9 out of 5
46 total ratings

Other poems of KINGSLEY

A Farewell


My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey:

Child Ballad

Jesus, He loves one and all,
Jesus, He loves children small,
Their souls are waiting round His feet
On high, before His mercy-seat.

Easter Week

See the land, her Easter keeping,
Rises as her Maker rose.
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst at last from winter snows.

Airly Beacon

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While my love climbed up to me!

Alton Locke's Song

Weep, weep, weep and weep,
For pauper, dolt, and slave!
Hark! from wasted moor and fen,


Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland;
Wearily onward I ride, watching the water alone.