WE’RE all alone, ’ist Pop an’ me,
’Cuz Mamma’s gone away somew’eres
T’ stay the longest time; an’ we
Are all alone; an’ Pop ’ist stares
A-past me an’ he never hears
Me when I ast w’ere she could be,
An’ both his eyes are full o’ tears
W’en we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.
An’ after w’ile I ast him w’y
She don’t come back; but he don’t know;
An’ ’en some way he starts t’ cry
Till I say, “Please, Pop, don’t cry so.”
An’ put my arms part way around
His neck an’ hug him, ’ist cuz we
Are lonesome; he don’t make a sound;
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.
An’ he ’ist hugs me up so tight
An’ sez my Mamma’s gone so fur
She won’t come back, but sez we might
’Ist some day, maybe, go to her.
An’ I ast w’y can’t we go now
’Cuz we’re so lonesome here; but he
Don’t seem to hear me ast, somehow,
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.
An’ ’en I ’ist fergit she’s gone
An’ think it’s almos’ time fur her
T’ come an’ put th’ supper on,
But w’en Pop’s eyes are all a blur
I ’member ’at’s she’s gone away,
An’ can’t git supper; Pop sez he
Ain’t hungry, an’ I ain’t, I say;
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.
An’ ’en Pop rocks me in his lap
An’ rubs my head, ’ist soft an’ kind,
An’ asts me if I’ll take a nap
If he pulls down th’ parlor blind.
An’ in a little w’ile I fall
Asleep an’ he ’ist rocks; but he
Don’t never go t’ sleep at all,
An’ we’re alone, ’ist Pop an’ me.
IN CHILDHOOD TIME
HARK! I hear the happy laughter that from children’s voices rings,
Swelling out like some vast golden harp with half a thousand strings,
Every one vibrating grandly in an ecstatic acclaim,
In a medley of sweet melodies that set the birds to shame;
On the harp of childhood’s happiness each note rings clear and true,
For the heart is pure and perfect and each quivering string is new,
And it tells and swells like bells afar that ring and rhyme and chime
The sweetest music ever told in note or tune or time.
When the heart is growing older and the harp of laughter rings,
There’s a false note clashing somewhere in the swelling of the strings;
There’s a chord that strikes imperfect, where some sorrow echoes through
The melody, and grief has warped the strings to strains not true.
Sometimes there’s brilliant music that rings from an empty heart,
But it’s not the melodious laughter of the child, that knows no art,
But just flows full and free, for Nature’s teachings, undefiled,
Make music that is heart-true in the sweet voice of a child.
Could I gather every note that floats and rings and swells and tells
The gladness of the child’s heart, true as any chime of bells
May tell the passing hour, and fashion them into a song,
’Twould thrill and fill the air with melody as though a throng
Of seraphim, as tinkling cymbals struck the twinkling stars
In heaven’s perfect music, where no din or discord mars,
And a myriad strings would mingle in a melody sublime,
The rhyme and chime of laughter gathered from all Childhood’s Time.