UNDER the haystack, little Boy Blue Sleeps with his head on his arm, While voices of men and voices of maids Are calling him over the farm.

Sheep in the meadows are running wild, Where a poisonous herbage grows,

Leaving white tufts of downy fleece On the thorns of the sweet, wild rose.

Out in the fields where the silken corn Its plumed head nods and bows,

Where the golden pumpkins, ripen below, Trample the white-faced cows.

But no loud blast on the shining horn Calls back the straying sheep,

And the cows may wander in hay or corn. While their keeper lies asleep.

His roguish eyes are tightly shut,

His dimples are all at rest; The chubby hend tucked under his head,

By one rosy cheek is pressed.

Waken him I No! Let down the bars

And gather the truant sheep, Open the barn-yard and drive in the cows,

But let the little boy sleep.

For year after year we can shear the fleece,

And corn can always be sown; But the sleep that visits little Boy Blue

Will not come when the years have flown.



Truth crushed to earth shall rise again: The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshipers.