A doll in the doll-maker‘s house

    Looks at the cradle and bawls：

    ‘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 filthy thing.‘

    Hearing him groan and stretch

    The doll-maker‘s wife is aware

    Her husband has heard the wretch，

    And crouched by the arm of his chair，

    She murmurs into his ear，

    Head upon shoulder leant：

    ‘My dear， my dear， O dear，

    It was an accident.‘