Page:Andrew Lockhart - At the Bars of Memory.pdf/21



He was just a wee, wee, little chap, But he meant, Oh, so much to me! An' since he went away the home don't seem At all like it used to be. I can't get used to the quiet room That once seemed so chuck full o' joy An' a lump keeps formin' in my throat 'Cause I want my boy!

His hands an' face were always soiled, But it wa'n't because he was mean, 'Cause I knew that beneath the dirt an' grime Both his little heart an' soul were clean. His hair was always mussed an' snarl'd, Like as though it never knew a comb, But that curly head was the sunshine Of our little home.

An' now when I sit in the quiet room I seem to feel him near, an' somehow I can trace his arms about my neck As his phantom kisses brush my brow; An' then—I just can't help listenin' For the crash of a fumbled toy. But the wind outside just sobs an' sighs— For my little boy!

Lonely? Yes, an' I just nigh starved For the glow of a little face; For the grimy hands an' tangled hair That once blessed this old home place. An' I want to hear the patter Of bare little feet on the stair An' hear again his "Hel-lo Dad— Me's comin' over there!"

He was just a wee, wee, little chap, But he meant, Oh, so much to me! An' since he went away the home don't seem At all like it used to be. I can't get used to the quiet room That once seemed so chuck full o' joy An' a lump keeps formin' in my throat 'Cause I want my boy!