  Only a boy with his noise and fun, The veriest mystery under the sun; As brimful of mischief and wit and glee As ever a human frame can be, And as hard to manage as—ah! ah, me! 'Tis hard to tell, Yet we love him well. Only a boy, with his fearful tread, Who cannot be driven, but must be led; Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, And tears more clothes, and spoils more hats, Loses more tops and kites and bats Than would stock a store, For a year or more. Only a boy, with his wild, strange ways, With his idle hours on busy days; With his queer remarks and his odd replies, Sometimes foolish and sometimes wise, Often brilliant for one of his size, As a meteor hurl'd, From the pleasant world. Only a boy, who will be a man If Nature goes on with her first great plan— If water, or fire, or some fatal snare Conspire not to rob us of this our heir, Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, Our torment, our joy, "Our only boy." —Anonymous. |
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