Of mornings, bright and early, When the lark is on the wing And the robin in the maple Hops from her nest to sing, From yonder cheery chamber Cometh a mellow coo - 'T is the sweet, persuasive treble Of my little Googly-Goo!
The sunbeams hear his music, And they seek his little bed, And they dance their prettiest dances Round his golden curly head:
Schottisches, galops, minuets, Gavottes and waltzes, too, Dance they unto the music Of my googling Googly-Goo.
My heart - my heart it leapeth To hear that treble tone;
What music like thy music, My darling and mine own!
And patiently - yes, cheerfully I toil the long day through - My labor seemeth lightened By the song of Googly-Goo!
I may not see his antics, Nor kiss his dimpled cheek:
I may not smooth the tresses The sunbeams love to seek;
It mattereth not - the echo Of his sweet, persuasive coo Recurreth to remind me Of my little Googly-Goo.
And when I come at evening, I stand without the door And patiently I listen For that dear sound once more;
And oftentimes I wonder, "Oh, God! what should I do If any ill should happen To my little Googly-Goo!"
Then in affright I call him - I hear his gleeful shouts!
Begone, ye dread forebodings - Begone, ye killing doubts!
For, with my arms about him, My heart warms through and through With the oogling and the googling Of my little Googly-Goo!
THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE
Speakin' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice.
Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose From his predisposition to chronic repose;
But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat - Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet!
Mos' dorgs hez some forte - like huntin' an' such, But the sports o' the field didn't bother him much;
Wuz just a plain dorg, an' contented to be On peaceable terms with the neighbors an' me;
Used to fiddle an' squirm, and grunt "Oh, how nice!"
When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce!
He wuz long in the bar'l, like a fyce oughter be;
His color wuz yaller as ever you see;
His tail, curlin' upward, wuz long, loose, an' slim - When he didn't wag it, why, the tail it wagged him!
His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pup Wuz as tall settin' down as he wuz standin' up!
He'd lie by the stove of a night an' regret The various vittles an' things he had et;
When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along, He'd lift up his voice in significant song - You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space In that bosom o' his'n to hold so much bass!
Of daytimes he'd sneak to the road an' lie down, An' tackle the country dorgs comin' to town;
By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe, For what he took hold of he never let go!
An' a dude that come courtin' our girl left a slice Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce!
He wuz good to us kids - when we pulled at his fur Or twisted his tail he would never demur;
He seemed to enjoy all our play an' our chaff, For his tongue 'u'd hang out an' he'd laff an' he'd laff;
An' once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice, He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce!
We all hev our choice, an' you, like the rest, Allow that the dorg which you've got is the best;
I wouldn't give much for the boy 'at grows up With no friendship subsistin' 'tween him an' a pup!
When a fellow gits old - I tell you it's nice To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce!
To think of the springtime 'way back in St. Joe - Of the peach-trees abloom an' the daisies ablow;
To think of the play in the medder an' grove, When little legs wrassled an' little han's strove;
To think of the loyalty, valor, an' truth Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth!
