English poem
A Toast To The Small Boy
by James W. Foley (1874–1939)
He knows the vagrant country roads Where sleepily they wind; He has his pockets full of toads, His smile is broad and kind; His dreams of lands and seas--who knows? His joys are never still, And whistling through the world he goes, The rugged small boy--Bill!
His world is full of song and shine, His days are all his own; His nights are full of plans so fine That youngsters all have known; With all the joy that health can give His ruddy pulses thrill, And, bless me, how he loves to live, This rugged small boy--Bill!
His trousers know the ample patch, His shoes gape at the toes, But see him gladly toe the scratch For any chum he knows; The heart of him is good as gold, And songs of gladness spill From his red lips, this sunny-souled And rugged small boy--Bill!
His scratch-scarred legs are never tired, His eyes bright-souled and starred, His heart with hopeful youth is fired, His sunny soul unscarred; The world is his, the fields, the trees, The brook, the wood, the hill, To do his will, as he may please, This rugged small boy--Bill!
He knows the song of life by heart, In fancy he may weave Such dreams as make the pulses start, A King of Make-Believe; And when I speak with him I hear Truth ripple like a rill From him, and gladness and good cheer, This rugged small boy--Bill!
Oh, bide thee, bide thee, overlong, Health, happiness, and youth; Be glad thy heart and light thy song And pure and clear thy truth! Nor cloud to dim thy sunny ways, Nor aught to bring thee ill, And year on year of perfect days, My rugged small boy--Bill!