Folks write of pansy, rose, and fern,
But if I was a poet an’ could rhyme,
I wouldn’t bother with common things,
I’d write of hollyhocks, every time.
The Miscreant
HE glares out from the gathering dusk
With furtive glancing eye,
A creature hunted, and at war
With every passer-by.
Such a malignant face he turns,
You feel a sudden fear,
Born of the knowledge which proclaims
An evil thing is near.
A man goes by—ah, mark that scowl—
A woman young and fair,
Evil the look he bends on her—
Then comes a gallant pair.
A laddie tall, and by his side
A baby-girl, who cries
Good night! out to the miscreant,
And laughs up in his eyes.
At strife is he with all the world,
But for a moment’s space,
Something akin to tenderness
Flares up in that dark face.