Patches
Mother focused with a frown
The part of me where I sit down.
Said she: “Your pants are wearing through;
Let me sew on a patch for you.”
And so she did,—of azure blue.
My britches were of sober grey,
And when I went to school next day,
The fellows said: “Excuse our smile:
We saw your patch 'way off a mile.”
Said I: “Sure, it’s the latest style.”
So each boy asked his Ma to match
With bluer blue my super—patch,
And when to school they came en masse,
It was the emblem of our class,
Admired by every bonnie lass.
Now when I’m old and in my dotage,
I hope I’ll have a humble cottage,
And sit me by a hive of bees,
A patchwork quilt accross my knees,
Warming my worn hands in the sun,
All ropey with the work they’ve done.
The work they’ve done to give me this
Brief bit of comfort, ease and bliss;
My pathway edged with cockle shells,
And bright with Canterbury bells,
That leads to where my humble thatch is,
It, too, adorned with straw—bright patches.
Other works by Robert W. Service...
