All On Account Of The Baby
By Amos Russel Wells
An ache in the back and an ache in the arms,
All on account of the baby.
A fear and a fright and a thousand alarms,
All on account of the baby.
And bottles and rattles and whistles and rings,
From cellar to attic a clutter of things,
From morning to night and to morning again
More fuss and more fume than an army of men.
And a head that is stupid for lack of its sleep,
And a heart where a flood of anxieties leap—
All on account of the baby.
A joy in the heart and a light in the eyes,
All on account of the baby.
A growing content and a growing surprise
All on account of the baby.
And patience that conquers a myriad frets,
And a sunshiny song that another begets,
And pureness of soul as a baby is pure,
And sureness of faith as the children are sure,
And a glory of love between husband and wife,
And a saner and happier outlook on life,
All on account of the baby.
