He cannot dance, you say, nor sing,
Nor troll a lilting stave;
And when the rest are cracking jokes
He’s silent as the grave.
Poor Joe! I know he cannot sing—
His voice is somewhat harsh:
But he can whistle loud and clear
As plover in the marsh.
Nor does he dance, but he would walk
Long miles to serve a friend,
And though he cares not crack a joke,
He will the truth defend.
And so, though he for company
May not be much inclined,
I love poor Joe, and think his home
Will be just to my mind.