The poem
Rosemary has of dolls a dozen, Yet she disdains them all; While Marie Rose, her pauper cousin Has just an old rag doll. But you should see her mother it, And with her kisses smother it.
A twist of twill, a hank of hair, Fit for the rubbish bin; How Rosemary with scorn would stare At its pathetic grin! Yet Marie Rose can lover it, And with her kisses cover it.
Rosemary is a pampered pet; She sniffs a dainty nose Of scorn at ragged dolls, and yet My love's with Marie Rose, In garret corner shy and sweet, With rag doll Marguerite.
Though kin they are, a gulf will grow Between them with the years; For one a life of love will know, The other toil and tears: Perhaps that shabby rag doll knows The rue of Marie Rose.