Where is the little boy Tommy?
Not in the parlor with hammer and tacks,
Not in the kitchen with sharp little axe,
Not on the lawn where patient old Bose
Lies half asleep with a fly on his nose;
Not in the garden planting his seeds,
Pulling up flowers as often as weeds,
No little Tommy.
Nor in the barn do I see his short legs,
Climbing the ladder to hunt for the eggs;
Nor yet in the meadow where cowslips are yellow,
Half hid by the grass, do I see the wee fellow,
I am sure he was here but a moment ago—
I wonder why boys are gotten up so!
Queer little Tommy.
Oh! down in the orchard where apples are green
A moment ago Master Tommy was seen—
High in the top of a gnarled old tree
Stuffing his pockets, and hiding from me;
Playing me tricks, for he knows full well
That his mamma's away, and that I won't tell.
I won't tell, and you wonder why?
Well, Tommy's a boy—and so was I.