At the Bars of Memory and Other Poems/The Wee, Wee Little Chap
THE WEE, WEE LITTLE CHAP
He was just a wee, wee, little chap,
But he meant, Oh, so much to me!
An' since he went away the home don't seem
At all like it used to be.
I can't get used to the quiet room
That once seemed so chuck full o' joy
An' a lump keeps formin' in my throat
'Cause I want my boy!
His hands an' face were always soiled,
But it wa'n't because he was mean,
'Cause I knew that beneath the dirt an' grime
Both his little heart an' soul were clean.
His hair was always mussed an' snarl'd,
Like as though it never knew a comb,
But that curly head was the sunshine
Of our little home.
An' now when I sit in the quiet room
I seem to feel him near, an' somehow
I can trace his arms about my neck
As his phantom kisses brush my brow;
An' then—I just can't help listenin'
For the crash of a fumbled toy.
But the wind outside just sobs an' sighs—
For my little boy!
Lonely? Yes, an' I just nigh starved
For the glow of a little face;
For the grimy hands an' tangled hair
That once blessed this old home place.
An' I want to hear the patter
Of bare little feet on the stair
An' hear again his "Hel-lo Dad—
Me's comin' over there!"
He was just a wee, wee, little chap,
But he meant, Oh, so much to me!
An' since he went away the home don't seem
At all like it used to be.
I can't get used to the quiet room
That once seemed so chuck full o' joy
An' a lump keeps formin' in my throat
'Cause I want my boy!