The Legend of Love
THERE’S a cup on the very topmost shelf
Of the cupboard built in the wall,
On one side a vine is traced on the delf
With forget-me-nots blue and small;
On the other the words stand boldly up
That were once a pride and a joy,
For a legend it bears, this old-fashioned cup,
Which runs, “For a good little boy!”
’Twas bought by a mother with eyes as blue
As forget-me-nots pretty and shy,
When youth was her portion, and love was true,
And the days went merrily by.
On the cottage floor where the sunbeams crept,
Played her own sturdy lad of three,
And but yesterday he smiled and he slept
Such a pretty babe on her knee.
He followed her down to the garden gate
On her way to the little town,
“Now hurry right back, and don’t you be late,”
He said with a pout and a frown.
He must have some toys for the Christmas-tide,
So she bought him a tiny sled,
And a nice little box of sweets beside
To go into his mouth so red.
“Was there anything else!” she asked herself,
“She could buy for the laddie small?”
It was then that she saw the cup of delf
Which stands on the shelf in the wall.
“For a good little boy,” ah, that meant him,
With a face as sweet as a rose,
“He is good,” she said, and her eyes grew dim,
“From his curly head to his toes.”
And she carried her treasures one by one
To the cottage down in the lane,
Where the winter sunbeams brightly shone
On his face at the window pane.
He was proud of the sleigh with its jingling bells
And the box was a thing of joy,
“But the cup is best,” he said, “for it tells
That I’m such a good little boy.”
O poor little mother, your eyes so blue,
Faded out with the wash of tears!
O poor little mother, your heart so true,
It broke with the weight of years!
And there, on the very topmost shelf,
The old-fashioned cup it has stood,
Since a day long ago when she owned to herself
That her boy was no longer good.
There is dust on it now, but believe me, dear,
It was once a pride and a joy,
With its legend of love, so bright and so clear,
Which runs, “For a good little Boy.”