*7< 4e liG A & ljO -o t R o y John Greenleaf Whittier B L E S S IN G S on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, w ith cheek of tan! W ith thy turned-up pantaloons, A n d thy m erry whistled tunes; W ith thy red lip, redder still, K issed by straw berries on the hill; W ith the sunshine on thy face, Th rough thy torn brim 's Jaunty grace, From m y heart I give thee Joy,— I w as once a barefoot boy. Prince thou art,— the grow n-up man O nly is republican, Let the m illion-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging aT his side, Thou hast more than he can buy, In the reach of ear and eye— Outw ard sunshine, inw ard Joy; B lessings on thee, barefoot boy! C H E E R IL Y , then, m y little man, Live and laugh as boyhood can! Th ough the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new -m ow n sward, E ve ry morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptism s of the dew; E ve ry evening from thy feet Shall the cool w ind kiss the heat; All too soon these feet m ust hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, L ike a colt's for w ork be shod, Made to tread the m ills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil; H ap py if their track be found N ever on forbidden ground; H appy If they sin k not in Q uick and treacherous sands of sin. A h ! that thou couldst know thy Joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
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