  LITTLE Boy From Savoy, With the slouch-sandalled feet, With the pipe in your hand, To play on, as you stand In the long, stony, stupid, stumbling street; And I got up from my desk, Saying, “What can be the row?” For the dogs went bow-wow, And I-cannot-tell-you-how Went your music; and the whole thing was grotesque. Then I saw you, picturesque, In the weather, With a feather In your rough wide-awake, And a bowl, Poor young soul! In your hand for the coppers you might take; And the handsome face you had, Little lad, Olive skin of the South, Large eyes and well-set mouth, I admired very much, yes, I did; And I wished you back again To your dear native plain On the loose with a marmot or a kid; With your father, and a bag full of money, In a cottage all your own Pretty much got up of stone, And with flocks In the rocks At your call, and the maids, Blue-kirtled, in the shades, And a score of beehives very full of honey! |
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