Darling little Harry,
Only eight years old,
Healthy as a sparrow
On the tree-top bold;
Cheeks as red as roses
By a lily laid,
Little form as perfect
As was ever made.
Cunning little package
Of brain and nerves and things,
Wrapped up in the whitest
And pinkiest of skins,
Labelled "Papa's Treasure,"
Worth its weight in gold;
Miser-like I hug it,
To my heart enfold.
Would that I could keep you
Ever young as now,
So innocent and loving,
With unclouded brow;
But days speed on so fast,
That in a few years more
My little boy will be a man,
That I can hug no more.
* * * * *