Little Boy Blue

Little Boy Blue
Abby Sage Richardson
4169

Under the haystack, Little Boy Blue
Sleeps with his head on his arm
While volces of men and voices of malds
Are calling him over the farm

Sheen in the meadows are runing wild
Where a polsonous herbage grows,
Leaving white turts of downy fleece
On the thorns of the sweet wild rose

Out in the fields where the silken corn
Its plumed head node and bowa,
Where the golden numpkins ripen below
Trample the white faced cows

But no loud blast on the shining hora
Calls back the straying sheep,
And the cows may wander in hay or corn
While their keeper lies asleep

His rowuish eyes are tightly shut
His dimples are all at rest;
The chubby hand tucked under his head
By one rosy cheek is pressed

Waken him? No! Let down the bars
And gather the fruant sheep
Open the barnyard and drive in the cows
But let the little boy sleep

For year after year we
And can shear the fleece, corn can always be town:
But the sleen that visits Little Boy Blue
Will not come when the years have flown