When will you write to me? when will you send?
When shall I follow you, Harry?—Ah when?
I wander'd far from my hateful abode;
The hour was becoming a little late;
Just there a gate open'd into a road,
And a boy was leaning upon the gate.
Faithful old Rover, who follow'd me out,
Went perfectly frantic beholding this boy,
Sniff'd at his coat, leaping wildly about,
And danced like a dog that dances for joy.