Alackaday! and woe is me! I’m broken past repair, you see; My day is o’er; and, banished, I With 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 power To cheer me in this dreadful hour: I cannot he entirely sad, Remembering those I have made glad,— Thinking how often my gay wiles Brought 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 wood To know that I have done some good.
