ROLY POLY'S just awakened,
Wakened in his cosy bed,
All his dainty ringlets tumbled
O'er his shoulders, and his head:
Roly Poly's cheeks are rounder
Than a dumpling duly done,
While they look as rich and ruddy,
As a freshly-dawning sun.
Roly Poly's keen for breakfast;
Ah! he stays, he tarries not,
But as soon as mother's breeched him,
Rushes for his "hot and hot";
Such huge sups of oatmeal porridge
Swallows he with lordly ease,
That I'm sure in stout digestion,
He's an infant--Hercules!
Roly Poly rises briskly
(When repletion bids him stop),
Shall he take his kite for flying,
Or, go out with cord and top?
Not the faintest breeze is blowing,
So, of course, the top's preferred;
Eagerly he hastes to spin it,
Almost flying--like a bird!
But unlucky Roly Poly
Chooses--since the ground is hard--
As the fittest place for spinning,
Mother's well-stocked poultry-yard;
So, what time his mammoth "hummer"
Circles on its nimble pegs,
Roly feels a rearward something
Dabbing, stabbing at his legs!
Round he turns in vast amazement,
Round, to find erect and free,
Ruffled, ireful, a great gander,
Quite as tall ('twould seem), as he;
But brave Roly Poly battles,
Knight-like, on his sturdy thighs,
Battles, till the treacherous monster
Leaves his legs, to smite his eyes!
Then, must Roly fly affrighted,
Fly, the sudden wrath beyond,
Of that ruthless, base aggressor,--
But to tumble in--a pond!
Over head and ears to tumble
In a dark, unsavory flood,
Bubbling, doubling, kicking fiercely,
Plucking weeds, and grasping mud!
While--as pitiless fate would have it--
Ponto, panting on the run,
Thinks that Master Roly Poly's
Only sought the pond in fun;
So, he dashes in, exultant,
Paws the boy, with bark and bound,
And instead of gallant rescue,
Madly rolls him round and round:--
When a gasping groan and sputter
Prove to Ponto, shrewd and true,
What is now the sacred duty
That a faithful dog should do;
See, he tugs at Roly's trowsers,
Tugs with steadfast might and main,
Till he brings our dripping urchin
Safely to the shore again.
Ponto's teeth are sharp and potent,
And impelled by need to speed,
They have made poor Roly Poly
In no stinted measure bleed!
Therefore, with his gory garments,
And his mud-bespattered knees,
He is like a dwarfish Sindbad,
Sorrow-laden, by the seas!
Oh! to mark our roguish Roly
Throw his fright and trouble off!
How he laughs at dangers vanished,
With his merriest boyish scoff.
Decked once more in spotless trowsers
How he makes the household ring:
Scours and scampers, shouts and dances,
Domineering like a king.
Doubt not that at lunch and dinner,
Fervid is the fork he plies;
Presto, how the mutton dwindles!
Gone are sweetmeats; melted pies!
Not one drop of bygone trouble
Bitter makes his cup, or can;
Roly! let us change our places--
I, the boy; and you, the man!
