A weary-looking woman,
With a smile that still was sweet,
Sewed, on a little garment,
With a cradle at her feet.
Pantaloon stood ready and waiting,
It was time for the going on;
But the clown in vain searched wildly--
The "property baby" was gone.
He murmured, impatiently hunting,
"It's strange that I cannot find;
There! I've looked in every corner;
It must have been left behind!"
The miners were stamping and shouting,
They were not patient men;
The clown bent over the cradle--
"I must take _you_, little Ben."
The mother started and shivered,
But trouble and want were near;
She lifted her baby gently;
"You'll be very careful, dear?"
"Careful? You foolish darling"--
How tenderly it was said!
What a smile shone thro' the chalk and paint--
"I love each hair of his head!"
The noise rose into an uproar,
Misrule for a time was king;
The clown with a foolish chuckle,
Bolted into the ring.
But as, with a squeak and flourish,
The fiddles closed their tune,
"You hold him as if he was made of glass!"
Said the clown to the pantaloon.
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