Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/122

120 Don't believe the foolish tongue–sow ’em when you’re old. Till you’re threescore years and ten, take my humble tip, Sow your nice tame oats and then… Hi, boys! Let ’er rip.

It’s slim and trim and bound in blue; Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold; Its words are simple, stalwart too; Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold. Its pages scintillate with wit; Its pathos clutches at my throat: Oh, how I love each line of it! That Little Book I Never Wrote.

In dreams I see it praised and prized By all, from plowman unto peer; It’s pencil-marked and memorized, It’s loaned (and not returned, I fear); It’s worn and torn and travel-tossed, And even dusky natives quote That classic that the world has lost, The Little Book I Never Wrote.

Poor ghost! For homes you’ve failed to cheer, For grieving hearts uncomforted, Don’t haunt me now.… Alas! I fear