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SINGER of songs of the hills—
 Dreamer, by waters unstirred,
Back in a valley of rills,
 Home of the leaf and the bird!—
Read in this fall of the year
 Just the compassionate phrase,
Faded with traces of tear,
 Written in far-away days:
“Gone is the light of my lap
 (Lord, at Thy bidding I bow),
Here is my little one’s cap,
 He has no need of it now,
Give it to somebody’s boy—
 Somebody’s darling”—she wrote.
Touching was Bob in his joy—
 Bob without boots or a coat.

Only a cap; but it gave
 Capless and comfortless one
Happiness, bright as the brave,
 Beautiful light of the sun.
Soft may the sanctified sod
 Rest on the father who led
Bob from the gutter, unshod—
 Covered his cold little head!

Bob from the foot to the crown
 Measured a yard, and no more—
Baby alone in the town,
 Homeless, and hungry, and sore—
Child that was never a child,
 Hiding away from the rain,
Draggled and dirty and wild,
 Down in a pipe of the drain.

Poor little beggar was Bob—
 Couldn’t afford to be sick,
Getting a penny a job,
 Sometimes a curse and a kick.
Father was killed by the drink;
 Mother was driven to shame;
Bob couldn’t manage to think—
 He had forgotten their name.

God was in heaven above,
 Flowers illumined the ground,
Women of infinite love
 Lived in the palaces round—
Saints with the character sweet
 Found in the fathers of old,
Laboured in alley and street—
 Baby slept out in the cold.

Nobody noticed the child—
 Nobody knew of the mite
Creeping about like a wild
 Thing in the shadow of night.
Beaten by drunkards and cowed—
 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.

© Henry Kendall