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Bob couldn't manage to think …
He had forgotten their name。
God was in heaven above；
Flowers illumined the ground；
Women of infinite love
Lived in the palaces round …
Page： 99
Saints with the character sweet
Found in the fathers of old；
Laboured in alley and street …
Baby slept out in the cold。
Nobody noticed the child …
Nobody knew of the mite
Creeping about like a wild
Thing in the shadow of night。
Beaten by drunkards and cowed …
Frightened to speak or to sob …
How could he ask you aloud；
‘‘Have you a penny for Bob？''
Few were the pennies he got …
Seldom could hide them away；
Watched by the ravenous sot
Ever at wait for his prey。
Page： 100
Poor little man！ He would weep
Oft for a morsel of bread；
Coppers he wanted to keep
Went to the tavern instead。
This was his history； friend …
Ragged； unhoused； and alone；
How could the child comprehend
Love that he never had known？
Hunted about in the world；
Crouching in crevices dim；
Crust with a curse at him hurled
Stood for a kindness with him。
Little excited his joy …
Bun after doing a job；
Mother of bright…headed boy；
Think of the motherless Bob！
Page： 101
High in the heavens august
Providence saw him； and said …
‘‘Out of the pits of the dust
Lift him； and cover his head。''
Ah； the ineffable grace；
Father of children； in Thee！
Boy in a radiant place；
Fanned by the breeze of the sea …
Child on a lullaby lap
Said； in the pause of his pain；
‘‘Mother； don't bury my cap …
Give it to Bob in the lane。''
Beautiful bidding of Death！
What could she do but obey；
Even when suffering Faith
Hadn't the power to pray？
Page： 102
So； in the fall of the year；
Saint with the fatherly head
Hunted for somebody's dear …
‘‘Somebody's darling；'' he said。
Bob； who was nobody's child；
Sitting on nobody's lap；
Draggled and dirty and wild …
Bob got the little one's cap。
Strange were compassionate words！
Waif of the alley and lane
Dreamed of the music of birds
Floating about in the rain。
White…headed father in God；
Over thy beautiful grave
Green is the grass of the sod；
Soft is the sound of the wave。
Page： 103
Down by the slopes of the sea
Often and often will sob
Boy who was fostered by thee …
This is the story of Bob。
Page： 104
PETER THE PICANINNY
HE has a name which can't be brought
Within the sphere of metre；
But； as he's Peter by report；
I'll trot him out as Peter。
I call him mine； but don't suppose
That I'm his dad； O reader！
My wife has got a Norman nose …
She reads the tales of Ouida。
I never loved a nigger belle …
My tastes are too aesthetic！
The perfume from a gin is … well；
A rather strong emetic。
Page： 105
But； seeing that my theme is Pete；
This verse will be the neater
If I keep on the proper beat；
And stick throughout to Peter。
We picked him up the Lord knows where！
At noon we came across him
Asleep beside a hunk of bear …
His paunch was bulged with 'possum。
（Last stanza will not bear； I own；
A pressure analytic；
But bard whose weight is fourteen stone；
Is apt to thump the critic。）
We asked the kid to give his name：
He didn't seem too willing …
The darkey played the darkey's game …
We tipped him with a shilling！
Page： 106
We tipped him with a shining bob …
No Tommy Dodd； believe us。
We didn't ‘‘tumble'' to his job …
Ah； why did Pete deceive us！
I； being； as I've said； a bard；
Resolved at once to foster
This mite whose length was just a yard …
This portable impostor！
‘‘This babe'' … I spoke in Wordsworth's tone …
（See Wordsworth's ‘‘Lucy''； neighbour）
‘‘I'll make a darling of my own；
And he'll repay my labour。
‘‘He'll grow as gentle as a fawn …
As quiet as the blossoms
That beautify a land of lawn …
He'll eat no more opossums。
Page： 107
‘‘The child I to myself will take
In a paternal manner；
And ah！ he will not swallow snake
In future； or ‘goanna'。
‘‘Will you reside with me； my dear？''
I asked in accents mellow …
The nigger grinned from ear to ear；
And said； ‘‘All right； old fellow！''
And so my Pete was taken home …
My pretty piccaninny！
And； not to speak of soap or comb；
His cleansing cost a guinea。
‘‘But hang expenses！'' I exclaimed；
‘‘I'll give him education：
A ‘nig' is better when he's tamed；
Perhaps； than a Caucasian。
Page： 108
‘‘Ethnologists are in the wrong
About our sable brothers；
And I intend to stop the song
Of Pickering and others。''
Alas； I didn't do it though！
Old Pickering's conclusions
Were to the point； as issues show；
And mine were mere delusions。
My inky pet was clothed and fed
For months exceeding forty；
But to the end； it must be said；
His ways were very naughty。
When told about the Land of Morn
Above this world of Mammon；
He'd shout； with an emphatic scorn；
‘‘Ah； gammon； gammon； gammon！''
Page： 109
He never lingered； like the bard；
To sniff at rose expanding。
‘‘Me like；'' he said； ‘‘em cattle…yard …
Fine smell … de smell of branding！''
The soul of man； I tried to show；
Went up beyond our vision。
‘‘You ebber see dat fellow go？''
He asked in sheer derision。
In short； it soon occurred to me
This kid of six or seven；
Who wouldn't learn his A B C；
Was hardly ripe for heaven。
He never lost his appetite …
He bigger grew； and bigger；
And proved； with every inch of height；
A nigger is a nigger。
Page： 110
And； looking from this moment back；
I have a strong persuasion
That； after all； a finished black
Is not the ‘‘clean'' … Caucasian。
Dear Peter from my threshold went；
One morning in the body：
He ‘‘dropped'' me； to oblige a gent …
A gent with spear and waddy！
He shelved me for a boomerang …
We never had a quarrel；
And； if a moral here doth hang；
Why let it hang … the moral！
My mournful tale its course has run …
My Pete； when last I spied him；
Was