Ballade of Dedication
T T o all you babes at Branxholm Park,
This book I dedicate;
A book for winter evenings dark,
Too dark to ride or skate.
I made it up out of my pate,
And wasted midnight oil,
Interpreting each cut and plate—
The works of Dicky Doyle!
When weary winter comes, and hark!
The Teviot roars in “spate”;
When half you think you’ll need the Ark,
The flood’s so fierce and great;
Think of the Prince and of his mate,
Their triumph and their toil,
And mark them drawn in all their state—
The works of Dicky Doyle!
Now, if my nonsense hits the mark—
If Wynnie, Pop, and Kate,
Think tales of Fays and Giants stark,
Not wholly out of date—
Another time, perchance, I’ll prate,
And keep a merry coil,
Though ne’er I’ll match the drawings great—
The works of Dicky Doyle!
Envoy
Girls, may you ne’er know fear nor hate;
Boys, field like Mr. Royle!
And, please, don’t say I desecrate
The works of Dicky Doyle!