Don’t cry, little brother;

I know that you fell,

But the place isn’t bleeding—

It soon will be well.

Dry your eyes, little brother;

You’re growing so tall

And it’s only a baby

Who cries at a fall.

But hark, little brother,

I hear the birds sing!

—We’ll play I’m a Duchess,

And you are a King!

So come, little brother,

I’ll make you a crown

Of the pretty white daisies

That grow on the down.