We had a little Willie, once,
  He was our only pride
We loved him, ah, perhaps too well,
  For soon he slept and died.

While many readers will view the above verse as the perfect addition to any collection of “Little Willie” rhymes, there is one significant problem: it was not intended to be funny.

In fact, it is a bit of rhyme used (from as early as 1861 through as late as 1875) in mortuary notices for children. The piece appears to have originated in the Philadelphia Public Ledger (1861), but was also found in the Maryland Sun (1875).

Some instances added this second verse:

Go, little loved one, go,
  Your parents’ heart can tell,
And none but they can full know
  How hard to say farewell.

Are these verses a precursor to the naughty Little Willie poems? It’s possible, perhaps even plausible, but before jumping too deeply into that conclusion, understand that this was a “fill in the deceased’s name” poem. You’ll find the parents of “Little Johnny” and “Little Mary” had the identical verse (where only the name was changed) in the obituaries of their beloved children.

There were occasional variations. In fact, clod that I am, the modified closing line of one version made me chuckle. In 1864, the Annapolis Gazette’s changed the closing line of little Anna Wilson’s obituary poem from “For soon she slept and died” to “For soon she drooped and died.”

“Drooped” is always funnier than “slept.”

Little Willie stood under an apple tree old,
The fruit was all shining with crimson and gold,
Hanging temptingly low; — how he longed for a bite,
Though he knew if he took one it wouldn’t be right.

Said he, “I don’t see why my father should say,
‘Don’t touch the old apple tree, Willie, to-day;’
I shouldn’t have thought — now they’re hanging so low –
When I asked for just one, he should answer me ‘No.’

“He would never find out if I took but just one,
And they do look so good, shinging out in the sun,
There are hundred and hundreds, and he wouldn’t miss
So paltry a little red apple as this.”

He stretched forth his hand, but a low, mournful strain,
Came wandering dreamily over his brain;
In his bosom a beautiful harp had long laid,
That the angel of conscience quite frequently played.

And he sang, “Little Willie, beware, O beware!
Your father has gone, but your Maker is there;
How sad you would feel, if you heard the Lord say,
‘This dear little boy stole an apple to-day.’”

Then Willie turned round, and, as still as a mouse,
Crept slowly and carefully into the house;
In his own little chamber he knelt down to pray
That the Lord would forgive him, and please not to say,
“Little Willie almost stole an apple to-day.”

Published March 03, 1860 in the Barre Gazette (Massachusetts)

Clearly not our Little Willie. First there is the length of the poem — brevity is critical for Little Willie’s to carry their stingingly macabre punch. But the issue of form irregularities are relatively insignificant once the reader considers that our special Little Willie, who has no compunction about “bashing open baby’s head”, would never pause to consider the moral repercussions of stealing an apple.

And if, in a weak moment, our Little Willie did stop to reflect on right and wrong, he would faithfully come down on the side of stealing not only the apple that first caught his attention, but every apple in the orchard.

When Willie was a little boy,
  No more than five or six,
Right constantly he did annoy
  His mother with his tricks.
Yet not a picayune cared I
  For what he did or said,
Unless, as happened frequently,
  The rascal wet the bed.

Closely he cuddled up to me,
  And put his hands in mine,
Till all at once I seemed to be
  Afloat in seas of brine.
Sabean odors clogged the air,
  And filled my soul with dread,
Yet I could only grin and bear
  When Willie wet the bed.

‘Tis many times that rascal has
  Soaked all the bedclothes through,
Whereat I’d feebly light the gas
  And wonder what to do.
Yet there he lay, so peaceful like;
  God bless his curly head,
I quite forgave the little tyke
  For wetting of the bed.

Ah me, those happy days have flown.
  My boy’s a father, too,
And little Willies of his own
  Do what he used to do.
And I! Ah, all that’s left for me
  Is dreams of pleasure fled!
Our boys ain’t what they used to be
  When Willie wet the bed.

Had I my choice, no shapely dame
  Should share my couch with me,
No amorous jade of tarnished fame,
  Nor wench of high degree;
But I would choose and choose again
  The little curly head,
Who cuddled close beside me when
  He used to wet the bed.

            – Eugene Field (1895)