Who is Barbee? What sort of a thing Is saddled with such a strange name? It has a heathenish kind of a ring, And sounds like a parlor game. I hear it each morn, I hear it each night, It comes from the voice of one Whose face is lit up with Love's purest light, My dear little three-year-old son. A smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye, A twinkle which tells even me That mischief is rampant whenever he's nigh And utters the name of Barbee. I ask him at times which one he loves best, And ever and always I hear That strangest of names he calls with a zest, 'Tis Barbee that he holds most dear. Now, who is Barbee? I asked him one day, And great indeed was my joy To hear this treasure of mine sweetly say, "Papa's Barbee,—Me Barbee's boy." Oh happy the man who owns such a name That is coined from the depths of love, Which only in children is found just the same As lives in God's heaven above. |