 | Prismatics |  |
MY BOY IN THE COUNTRY.
METHINKS I see his head's round, silky crop,
Like a blown thistle's top!
Or watch him walk—with legs stretched wide apart,
Dragging a small red cart;
Or hear his tiny treble, chirp in play,
With, “O go way!”
Or, where the crystal eddies swirl the sand,
I see him stand
To plump the polished pebbles in the brook
With steadfast look,
While his wee, waggling head, with nothing on it
But a sun-bonnet,
Looks like the picture of a Capuchin
A round frame in.
Now with his tender fist he rubs his eye:
“Plague take that fly!”
Or hovering Bessy claps a sudden veto
On some moschito
While he lies sleeping, in his shaded crib,
Sans stocking, bib;
His toes curled up so sweet that I could eat 'em,
How could I beat him?
How lay a finger on that soft brown skin,
With many a blue vein interspersed therein?
Like a blown thistle's top!
Or watch him walk—with legs stretched wide apart,
Dragging a small red cart;
Or hear his tiny treble, chirp in play,
With, “O go way!”
Or, where the crystal eddies swirl the sand,
I see him stand
To plump the polished pebbles in the brook
With steadfast look,
While his wee, waggling head, with nothing on it
But a sun-bonnet,
Looks like the picture of a Capuchin
A round frame in.
Now with his tender fist he rubs his eye:
“Plague take that fly!”
208
On some moschito
While he lies sleeping, in his shaded crib,
Sans stocking, bib;
His toes curled up so sweet that I could eat 'em,
How could I beat him?
How lay a finger on that soft brown skin,
With many a blue vein interspersed therein?
| Prismatics | |