Page:Andrew Lockhart - At the Bars of Memory.pdf/26



There's a something 'bout you, little chap, That just makes me wish that you Belonged to me—don't know what it is, Unless it's your eyes o' blue An' your little kewpie lips that curl Like a rose bud damp with dew.

Maybe it's your little nose. An' might be your pinkish ears, An' maybe it's your soft, white cheeks Where time will yet trace the years; An' per'aps it's your gurglin' little laugh When kisses have dried your tears.

There's a something bout you, little chap, That I can't quite understand; An' the heart o' me just seems to thrill When your fingers clutch my hand, An' a sort o' yearnin' fills my soul … A hunger I can't command.

An' when you're dreamin' safe in your crib. An' the house is wrapp'd in sleep, I leave my work an' tip-toe soft Cross the room to take a peep At your sweet little features an' sometimes I kiss you … an' then feel cheap!

An' then I go back to my study, An' the scratchin' o' my pen Is stilled in fond retrospection Of sweet things that might have been; An' a tear soils the ill-penned pages … An' I am myself again!