The Dustman

"Dustman, dustman!"

Through the deserted square he cries,

And babies put their rosy fists

Into their eyes.

There's nothing out of No-man's-land

So drowsy since the world began,

As, "Dustman, dustman,

Dustman."

He goes his village round at dusk

From door to door, from day to day;

And when the children hear his step

They stop their play.

"Dustman, dustman!"

Far up the street he is descried,

And soberly the twilight games

Are laid aside.

"Dustman, dustman!"

There, Drowsyhead, the old refrain,

"Dustman, dustman!"

It goes again.

"Dustman, dustman!"

Hurry by and let me sleep.

When most I wish for you to come,

You always creep.

"Dustman, dustman!"

And when I want to play some more,

You never then are farther off

Than the next door.

"Dustman, dustman!"

He beckles down the echoing curb,

A step that neither hopes nor hates

Ever disturb.

"Dustman, dustman!"

He never varies from one pace,

And the monotony of time

Is in his face.

And some day, with more potent dust,

Brought from his home beyond the deep,

And gently scattered on our eyes,

We, too, shall sleep,—

Hearing the call we know so well

Fade swiftly out as it began,

"Dustman, dustman,

Dustman!"