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.
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!
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?
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.
Down by the slopes of the sea
Often and often will sob
Boy who was fostered by thee--
This is the story of Bob.

Peter the Piccaninny

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.

But, seeing that my theme is Pete,
This verse will be th