Here's his ragged "roundabout"; Turn the pockets inside out: See; his pen-knife, lost to use, Rusted shut with apple-juice; Here, with marbles, top and string, Is his deadly "devil-sling,"
With its rubber, limp at last As the sparrows of the past!
Beeswax -- buckles -- leather straps -- Bullets, and a box of caps, -- Not a thing of all, I guess, But betrays some waywardness -- E'en these tickets, blue and red, For the Bible-verses said -- Such as this his mem'ry kept -- "Jesus wept."
Here's a fishing hook-and-line, Tangled up with wire and twine, And dead angle-worms, and some Slugs of lead and chewing-gum, Blent with scents that can but come From the oil of rhodium.
Here -- a soiled, yet dainty note, That some little sweetheart wrote, Dotting, -- "Vine grows round the stump,"
And -- "My sweetest sugar lump!"
Wrapped in this -- a padlock key Where he's filed a touch-hole -- see!
And some powder in a quill Corked up with a liver pill; And a spongy little chunk Of "punk."
Here's the little coat -- but O!
Where is he we've censured so!
Don't you hear us calling, dear?
Back! come back, and never fear. -- You may wander where you will, Over orchard, field and hill; You may kill the birds, or do Anything that pleases you!
Ah, this empty coat of his!
Every tatter worth a kiss; Every stain as pure instead As the white stars overhead: And the pockets -- homes were they Of the little hands that play Now no more -- but, absent, thus Beckon us.
End of title
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