Baby is robed in her long white gown, Which grandmamma brought from town; And under her chin mamma has tied— With fingers that flutter with loving pride— The satin strings of the bonnet small, And wrapped her warm in a fleecy shawl; For baby, the darling, is but a month old, And takes her first journey to-day in the cold.
The rain streams down, and cold winds blow, As off to church in a coach we go With our precious burden, so frail, yet dear, To render grateful thanks for her, And the fond young mother, whose eyes are aglow With the light of maternal joy, I know. Then at the baptismal font we bow, And baby receives the "sign" on her brow.
Grandmamma's eyes have misty grown, As her fond glance travels from babe to son,— The proud young father whose anxious gaze Turns so oft to the infant's face— Perchance she thinks of life's morning-tide, When she and grandpa stood side by side At the sacred font, to give a name To the first sweet pledge of love that came.
And when in the parlour, after tea, Grandpapa takes the babe on his knee— Fondling its tiny hands the while— Grandma looks on with a pleased smile; And dear old grandmother number two Fusses about as grandmothers do. And all is joy and innocent mirth, And mamma's the proudest mother on earth.
Godmother sits in the corner, and she Keeps all alive with her raillery; And many amusing stories are told Of folks and jokes and days of old, Till the coach comes rattling up to the door. Then good-byes are said, and repeated once more; When the last hand's shaken, the coach drives away, And so ends the baby's christening day.
