’Twas but this very morn,
He doffed his dainty ’broidered blouse,
With skirts of snowy lawn;
And shook a mass of silken curls
From off his sunny brow;
They fretted him—“so like a girl’s,”
Mamma can have them now.
He owned a brand-new pocket-book,
But that he could not find;
A knife and string were all he took.