Roly-Poly is three years old,
Three years old, and a trifle over:
Roly-Poly is round as a ball,
Jolly as larks, and sweet as clover.

Roly-Poly has stars for eyes,
A heavenly chin with a dimple in it,
Peaches for cheeks, the bud of a nose,
And a tongue that is never still a minute.

Roly-Poly gets up in the morning,--
Morning, quoth I? it's the crack of the dawn!--
Dresses himself in a boot and a stocking,
Flies to his sister as swift as a fawn.

Pulls at her eyes with his fat little fingers,--
Crazy for stories, that's all the matter!--
"Oh! I am sleepy and cross," she cries;
"You, Roly-Poly, disperse and scatter!"

But Roly-Poly's a resolute tyrant;
Father and mother are captives wholly:
So what can a poor big sister do
But yield to a king like Roly-Poly.

Roly-Poly's a man of business:
He canters to market on grandpa's cane,
Orders a breakfast of peppermint-candy,
And gallops his pony home again.