A mother of fashion, was being arrayed,
By her dainty French maid Babette;
Her two little girls in the nursery played,
But one was her darling, her pet;
A sound from the room caused the mother to cry,
"Was that you my dear Marie?"
The answer came back twixt a sob and a sigh,
"No mamma it's only me."
Only me, only me,
Sobbed in a weary tone,
Wrung from an innocent baby's heart,
That felt so much alone!
One got the kisses and kindly words,
That was her pet, Marie!
One told her troubles to bees and birds,
That one was only me!"
Close to a white cot, on a bright summer day,
The mother's heart wakened at last;
The life of her baby was ebbing away,
The tears of repentance fell fast;
Now don't you cry, mamma dear, you needn't care,
It isn't your dear Marie.
"And maybe the Angels will have love to spare,"
A little for only me."