“Was there anything else!” she asked herself,
“She could buy for the laddie small?”
It was then that she saw the cup of delf
Which stands on the shelf in the wall.
“For a good little boy,” ah, that meant him,
With a face as sweet as a rose,
“He is good,” she said, and her eyes grew dim,
“From his curly head to his toes.”
And she carried her treasures one by one
To the cottage down in the lane,
Where the winter sunbeams brightly shone
On his face at the window pane.
He was proud of the sleigh with its jingling bells
And the box was a thing of joy,
“But the cup is best,” he said, “for it tells
That I’m such a good little boy.”
O poor little mother, your eyes so blue,
Faded out with the wash of tears!
O poor little mother, your heart so true,
It broke with the weight of years!
And there, on the very topmost shelf,
The old-fashioned cup it has stood,
Since a day long ago when she owned to herself
That her boy was no longer good.
There is dust on it now, but believe me, dear,
It was once a pride and a joy,
With its legend of love, so bright and so clear,
Which runs, “For a good little Boy.”
