Classic Poem

A roving boy comes, staff in hand,
Home again from a foreign land.

His face it is burnt, and there's dust in his hair,
Who will remember the boy so fair?

Thro' the ancient gate of the town steps he,
At the bar leans the toll-keeper lazily.

The toll-keeper was his friend beloved,
Often had they clash'd cups, well proved.

But, behold! his friend forgets all trace,
So fiercely the sun has burnt his face!

After short greeting, the boy goes on,
Shaking the dust from his feet anon.

When from a window his treasure he spies,
" Hail, blooming maiden! to those bright eyes. "

But, behold! the girl has forgotten all trace,
So fiercely the sun has burnt his face!

Further his way thro' the street he seeks,
A stealthy tear on his sunburnt cheeks.

His mother comes tottering from the church door,
" God greets thee!" he says, and nothing more.

But, behold! his mother sobs for joy,
" My son!" and falls on the breast of her boy.

Tho' fiercely the sun has burnt his face,
The mother's eye lights up each trace.