  The roads go out to Macedon, the roads go out to Rome, Some die in snowy Buffaloes and some turn home; I've done the Alps and Apennines, and Naples to the moon, For fancies cover splendid ground in a Summer afternoon. And then I come to gloryland, and whom do I see there But little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair? Little Imps of Gloryland with great big eyes Follow me with questionings and laughter and surprise; Little cheeky pixie boys whom nothing can suppress, Whose pandects, codes and institutes are bound in mother's "Yes." When Uncle comes in Sunday clothes they clamour to be kissed, Black-currants sticking to each face and pancakes in each fist. Four fists that is, all over jam, and four black sticky lips Just come from playing motor-chairs and sailing sofa-ships. And if you wander on the lawn untended in the dark With tricycles and wheelbarrows your shins will lose some bark! WHISPER! Someone smashed the photo-lady; Who upset the pot of musk? Was it Micky? Was it Padie Hunting Micky in the dusk? For what's your talk of tidiness and putting things "right there" To little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair? I'm picking up the channel or I'm trucking up the slope, I'm hauling on the shear-head with a length of yellow rope; No matter where I'm wandering, in dreaming or in fact, Wool-loaded down the blacksoil plains or past the desert tract, About the city clamorous with many brakes and bells, It takes no sweep of wizard wand nor moonlit fairy spells To bring me back to kitchen land, and whom do I see there But little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair! |
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