 | English Roses |  |
AN EGYPTIAN BOY.
Thou art the same, Egyptian boy,As England's own,
A mother's torment and her joy
Of price unknown.
The rippling laughter or the jest
Upon thee lies,
As soft as dew on roses' breast
Beneath our skies.
No playful banter, threatened deed,
Do differ now
In childhood's crude and daring creed
And broken vow.
The pouting word, the petulance,
The candid truth,
Attest in each bright circumstance
Our English youth.
The merry quips, the careless flaws,
The scribbled name
Defying grammar and its laws,
Are still the same.
The love of sport, the hated toil
And study's chain,
The father whom his sons despoil,
Come back again.
Ah, those dear eyes are in the grave,
That sunny smile,
Which saw the sacred lotus wave
Upon old Nile.
| English Roses | |