Alackaday! and woe is me!I’m broken past repair, you see;My day is o’er; and, banished, IWith worn-out toys must be laid by.Mine is a sad and sorry plight;My wooden heart is broken quite.
Yet some dear memories have powerTo cheer me in this dreadful hour:I cannot he entirely sad,Remembering those I have made glad,—Thinking how often my gay wilesBrought to the children merry smiles.
Why, when I ’d turn a somersault,Or high above my stick I ’d vault,The baby crowed with lively squeals,And Bobby’s laughter rang in peals;And when I ’d spring or jump or climb,Dorothy chuckled every time!
And so, though I can’t do a trick,—Though I can't even climb my stick,And nobody with me will play,And soon I must be thrown away,—It cheers my broken heart of woodTo know that I have done some good.
