“After the Prize-Fight”

He was the parson's little son Who rose betimes at four, All hastily his clothes to don, And lightly ope the door. He slipped him from the darkened room, And peeped him all around, Amid the misty morning gloom, For something on the ground. He searched the front yard o'er and o'er; The high grass by the stile; The graveled walk beside the door— Alas, the weary while! And as he gazed the ground upon The tear swelled in his eye; And then the parson's little son Most piteously did cry. "The mornin' pape I want ter see, And find who was knocked out, But some mean chump has collared it— I'd like to punch his snout!" Alas, the parson's little lad, Who rose before the light, Knew not that in the study "dad" Was reading of the fight!