My father was the whipper-in, -
       &nbspIs still - if I’m not misled?
And now I see, where the hedge is thin,
       &nbsp A little spot of red;
       &nbsp Surely it is my father
       &nbsp Going to the kennel-shed!

“I cursed and fought my father - aye,
       &nbsp And sailed to a foreign land;
And feeling sorry, I’m back, to stay,
       &nbsp Please God, as his helping hand.
       &nbsp Surely it is my father
       &nbsp Near where the kennels stand?”

“ - True. Whipper-in he used to be
       &nbsp For twenty years or more;
And you did go away to sea
       &nbsp As youths have done before.
       &nbsp Yes, oddly enough that red there
       &nbsp Is the very coat he wore.

“But he - he’s dead; was thrown somehow,
       &nbsp And gave his back a crick,
And though that is his coat, ‘tis now
       &nbsp The scarecrow of a rick;
       &nbsp You’ll see when you get nearer -
       &nbsp ’Tis spread out on a stick.
“You see, when all had settled down
       &nbsp Your mother’s things were sold,
And she went back to her own town,
       &nbsp And the coat, ate out with mould,
       &nbsp Is now used by the farmer
       &nbsp For scaring, as ‘tis old.”