Childhood

My child, we both were children,
And merry days we saw,
We used to creep into the fowl-house
And hide there under the straw.

And then we set up a crowing ;
The people who passed on the road
Cock-a-doodle-doo ! — they thought it
Was really a cock that crowed.

The cases that lay in our courtyard,
We fitted them up with care ;
And made a magnificent mansion,
And lived together there.

And the cat of our next-door neighbour
Came to visit us too ;
We gave our best bows and courtseys,
With compUments fine and new.

As to her health we asked her,
With friendly and earnest air ;
Many old cats have we since asked
The like with the like deep care.

And often we sat discussing,
As if we were old and grey ;
Bemoaning how things were better,
Better indeed, in our day.

How Love, Truth, Faith had vanished,
And left the world all bad ;
How the price of coffee was shameful,
And money was not to be had ! . . .

Past, past, are the sports of our childhood,
And all rolls past in sooth, —
The World, and Time, and Money,
And Faith, and Love, and Truth.