A gallant soldier four years old
Was longing for the fray,
And yet the cruel hand of fate
Seemed always in the way.
He longed to mount a foaming steed
And gallop off to war.
To slaughter foemen with his sword--
Pray, what are tin swords for?
His mother said, and smiled,
"Why, what a notion, child!?
His mother never seemed to see
How old her boy had grown,
Although she left him in the dark
To go to sleep alone;
All wide awake he used to lie
And think, and think indeed,
About a surging battleline,
About a gallant steed.
His mother bent down near,
"Now go to sleep, my dear".
All staring wide awake he lay
And watched for his steed to com;
He strained his ears for the cannon peel,
The best of the sturdy drum;
He rode away on his rocking-horse,
Away-away-away-
He left his mother far behind.
This soldier brave and gay.
His mother took a peep:
"The baby's fast asleep!"
No comments:
Post a Comment