 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
LITTLE BROWN PATCH.
A POEM OF THE PAVEMENT.
Out in the rain and pinched by the cold,
Is she lost in the street and strayed from the fold?
Little Brown Patch,
With her hair like thatch,
Trippingly, slippingly, toddles along,
In a cloud of rags and a glory of song.
Is she lost in the street and strayed from the fold?
Little Brown Patch,
With her hair like thatch,
Trippingly, slippingly, toddles along,
In a cloud of rags and a glory of song.
Over the pavement, under the lamps,
Breathing the winter bravely she tramps;
Little Brown Patch,
With no clothes to match;
Pattering, chattering wonderful things,
While the friendly mud to her features clings.
Breathing the winter bravely she tramps;
Little Brown Patch,
With no clothes to match;
Pattering, chattering wonderful things,
While the friendly mud to her features clings.
Into the gutter, now on the stones,
Mending her manners and bruising her bones,
Little Brown Patch,
None the worse for a scratch,
Provokingly, jokingly, rises from slips,
With the dirt in her eyes and a laugh on her lips.
Mending her manners and bruising her bones,
Little Brown Patch,
None the worse for a scratch,
Provokingly, jokingly, rises from slips,
With the dirt in her eyes and a laugh on her lips.
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Jostled by constables, jolted by carts,
Picking her road with miraculous arts,
Little Brown Patch,
Takes them all in a batch—
Verily merrily, bears with them all,
With a blessing for blows and a rhyme for a fall.
Picking her road with miraculous arts,
Little Brown Patch,
Takes them all in a batch—
Verily merrily, bears with them all,
With a blessing for blows and a rhyme for a fall.
Far from her friends and away from her nest,
From the sheltering arms and the motherly breast,
Little Brown Patch,
(What a chicken to hatch!)
Beguilingly, smilingly, nothing would shun,
While she reckons the bruises as buffets in fun.
From the sheltering arms and the motherly breast,
Little Brown Patch,
(What a chicken to hatch!)
Beguilingly, smilingly, nothing would shun,
While she reckons the bruises as buffets in fun.
Hear how she carols when grappling the gust,
That is homely to her with its halo of dust!
Little Brown Patch,
Whom the eddies all catch,
Mustering, blustering, still at the turns,
Where the wind is as wild as the spirit it spurns.
That is homely to her with its halo of dust!
Little Brown Patch,
Whom the eddies all catch,
Mustering, blustering, still at the turns,
Where the wind is as wild as the spirit it spurns.
And what troubles she for the wind or the wet,
When all are good fish that come to her net?
Little Brown Patch,
At her life makes a snatch;
Splashing and dashing her vehement way,
With a sister's affection for commoner clay.
When all are good fish that come to her net?
Little Brown Patch,
At her life makes a snatch;
Splashing and dashing her vehement way,
With a sister's affection for commoner clay.
The cats and the curs that are straying as she,
That she takes to her heart without question or plea,
Little Brown Patch,
Has a spell to attach,
Hurriedly, flurriedly, sleeking their coats;
While, the truth must be told, upon donkeys she doats.
That she takes to her heart without question or plea,
Little Brown Patch,
Has a spell to attach,
Hurriedly, flurriedly, sleeking their coats;
While, the truth must be told, upon donkeys she doats.
Is she ripe for a revel or off for a job,
That she scrambles along through the mire and the mob?
Little Brown Patch,
In such reckless despatch,
Hustles and bustles with impudent air,
While her clouts all misfit and her shoes do not pair.
That she scrambles along through the mire and the mob?
Little Brown Patch,
In such reckless despatch,
Hustles and bustles with impudent air,
While her clouts all misfit and her shoes do not pair.
Others have homes that they find at the last,
When their sad pains and their perils are past;
But will Little Brown Patch,
Ever light on a latch,
Lingering, fingering, yet at the door,
Where her touch was familiar and welcome before?
When their sad pains and their perils are past;
But will Little Brown Patch,
Ever light on a latch,
Lingering, fingering, yet at the door,
Where her touch was familiar and welcome before?
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |