The lion's cub :: :: University of Virginia Library

We sat and talked together,
My little boy and I;
It was changeful April weather,
And rain was in the sky.
A wintry wind was blowing,
The sun refused to shine;
This set his tongue a-going,
As if the fault were mine.

“You are the crossest father
(And mother says so, too),
I ever had. I'd rather
Have none at all than you.
You said I might go walking,
And don't do what you say;
You try to stop my talking,
You will not let me play.

If all the fathers living
Were children, you would see
What things they would be giving
To little boys like me.
You'd get me all I needed,
A pair of gloves and cane,
(There's Sidney's father, he did,)
Besides a watch and chain.

It always makes me sorry
Whenever I am told
That I am only Lori,
And only eight years old;
That I am not a hundred,
A great, big man like you:
And I have often wondered
What I would be and do.

No father to compel me
To do, or leave undone,
No mother then to tell me
I was a naughty son.
I want to grow old faster,
I hurry all I can;
I'll be my own free master
When I become a man!”

Forgetting he had teased me,
I smiled at what he said,
For something in it pleased me,
Although I shook my head.
I said: “You are mistaken,
My child, in thinking so.”
With confidence unshaken
He stoutly answered, “No.”

“My boy, I can remember
When I was young, I say;

For though in Life's December,
My heart is true to May.
Before I was a father
I was a child, you see.
If you were me, you'd rather
Be you, my dear, than me.

No father's hand caressed me,
I knew no father's love;
If when he died he blessed me
Is only known above.
Somewhere in ocean, may be—
I know not—he may rest,
For I was but a baby
Upon my mother's breast.

My childhood was not pleasant,
For, unlike you, my boy,
I never had a present,
And never bought a toy.
Yet, hard as this seems, Lori,
I felt so little pain,
I would be glad, not sorry,
To be that child again.

When I am worn and weary,
And I am both to-day,
For everything looks dreary,
And mother is away;

And strange, new troubles gather,
And my poor head is wild—
I am sick of playing Father,
I want to be the Child!”