JOHNNY had a golden head
Like a golden mop in blow,
Right and left his curls would spread
In a glory and a glow,
And they framed his honest face
Like stray sunbeams out of place.
Long and thick, they half could hide
How threadbare his patched jacket hung;
They used to be his Mother's pride ;
She praised them with a tender tongue,
And stroked them with a loving finger
That smoothed and stroked and loved to linger.
On a doorstep Johnny sat,
Up and down the street looked he ;
Johnny did not own a hat,
Hot or cold tho' days might be ;
Johnny did not own a boot
To cover up his muddy foot.