ONE day a little boy,
With a poor broken toy,
And ragged clothes, went by.
He looked as if he'd like to cry,
To see my soldiers fine,
In scarlet coats, so straight in line.
Would he have liked to play with me,
Here beneath my shady tree?
I wonder, but I did not call him back again.
I thought he'd come next day the same,
And I would ask him in to play,
And when he had to go away
Give him my nicest toys—
The drum that makes the loudest noise,
My whistle, and perhaps my sword,
Or even my soldier hat with braids and cord.
But though I watch here by the gate
Until it grows quite dark and late,
I never hear his footsteps there,
The little boy is gone somewhere.