The terrier’s whining out in the sun—
“Where’s my comrade?” he seems to say,
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There’s no frolic for you to-day.
The freckle-faced girl from the house next door,
Is sobbing her young heart out,
Don’t cry little girl, you’ll soon forget
To miss the laugh and the shout.
The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him “darling” and “sweet,”
The maiden aunt is holding the shoes
That he wore on his restless feet.
How strangely quiet the little form,
With the hands on the bosom crossed!
Not a fold, not a flower out of place,
Not a short curl rumpled and tossed!
So solemn and still the big house seems—
No laughter, no racket, no din,
No startling shriek, no voice piping out,
“I’m sorry I isn’t a twin!”
There’s a man and a woman pale with grief,
As the wearisome moments creep;
Oh! the loneliness touches everything—
The boy of the house is asleep.
For He was Scotch and so was She
THEY were a couple well-content
With what they earned and what they spent,
Cared not a whit for style’s decree,
For he was Scotch, and so was she.
And O, they loved to talk of Burns;
Dear, lithesome, tender, Bobby Burns!
They never wearied of his song,
He never sang a note too strong,
One little fault could neither see,
For he was Scotch, and so was she.