III

That, Fragoletta, is the rain Beating upon the window-pane; But lo! The golden sun appears, To kiss away the window's tears. That, Fragoletta, is the wind, That rattles so the window-blind; And yonder shining thing's a star, Blue eyes—you seem ten times as far. That, Fragoletta, is a bird That speaks, yet never says a word; Upon a cherry tree it sings, Simple as all mysterious things; Its little life to peck and pipe, As long as cherries ripe and ripe, And minister unto the need Of baby-birds that feed and feed. This, Fragoletta, is a flower, Open and fragrant for an hour, A flower, a transitory thing, Each petal fleeting as a wing, All a May morning blows and blows, And then for everlasting goes.

IV

Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed Of little mother's hallowed breast, The while your trembling lips are fed, Look up at mother's bended head, All benediction over you— O blue eyes looking into blue!

Fragoletta is so small, We wonder that she lives at all— Tiny alabaster girl, Hardly bigger than a pearl; That is why we take such care, Lest some one run away with her.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-



CHOOSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister: I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten! She will shortly be to christen; And papa has made the offer, I shall have the naming of her.

Now I wonder what would please her,— Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker. Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have named as yet Is so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine; What do you think of Caroline? How I'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her;— I will leave papa to name her.

Mary Lamb [1764-1847]



WEIGHING THE BABY

"How many pounds does the baby weigh— Baby who came but a month ago? How many pounds from the crowning curl To the rosy point of the restless toe?"

Grandfather ties the 'kerchief knot, Tenderly guides the swinging weight, And carefully over his glasses peers To read the record, "only eight."

Softly the echo goes around: The father laughs at the tiny girl; The fair young mother sings the words, While grandmother smooths the golden curl.

And stooping above the precious thing, Nestles a kiss within a prayer, Murmuring softly "Little one, Grandfather did not weigh you fair."

Nobody weighed the baby's smile, Or the love that came with the helpless one; Nobody weighed the threads of care, From which a woman's life is spun.

No index tells the mighty worth Of a little baby's quiet breath— A soft, unceasing metronome, Patient and faithful until death.

Nobody weighed the baby's soul, For here on earth no weights there be That could avail; God only knows Its value in eternity.

Only eight pounds to hold a soul That seeks no angel's silver wing, But shrines it in this human guise, Within so frail and small a thing!

Oh, mother! laugh your merry note, Be gay and glad, but don't forget From baby's eyes looks out a soul That claims a home in Eden yet.

Ethel Lynn Beers [1827-1879]



ETUDE REALISTE I

A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine on life's untrodden brink A baby's feet.

II

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,— A baby's hands.

Then, even as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rosebuds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world,— A baby's hands.

III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby's eyes.

Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise!

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



LITTLE FEET

Two little feet, so small that both may nestle In one caressing hand,— Two tender feet upon the untried border Of life's mysterious land.

Dimpled, and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms, In April's fragrant days, How can they walk among the briery tangles, Edging the world's rough ways?

These rose-white feet, along the doubtful future, Must bear a mother's load; Alas! since Woman has the heavier burden, And walks the harder road.

Love, for a while, will make the path before them All dainty, smooth, and fair,— Will cull away the brambles, letting only The roses blossom there.

But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded Away from sight of men, And these dear feet are left without her guiding, Who shall direct them then?

How will they be allured, betrayed, deluded, Poor little untaught feet! Into what dreary mazes will they wander, What dangers will they meet?

Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness Of Sorrow's tearful shades? Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, Whose sunlight never fades?

Will they go toiling up Ambition's summit, The common world above? Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, Walk side by side with Love?

Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded, Which find but pleasant ways: Some hearts there be to which this life is only A round of happy days.

But these are few. Far more there are who wander Without a hope or friend,— Who find their journey full of pains and losses, And long to reach the end.

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger, Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway Stretches so fair and wide?

Ah! who may read the future? For our darling We crave all blessings sweet, And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens Will guide the baby's feet.

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]



THE BABIE

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin' on her feet; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips, an' baumy mou', With na ane tooth within.

Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel's face,— We're glad she has nae wings.

She is the buddin' of our luve, A giftie God gied us: We maun na luve the gift owre weel, 'Twad be nae blessin' thus.

We still maun luve the Giver mair, An' see Him in the given; An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, Our babie straight frae Heaven.

Jeremiah Eames Rankin [1828-1904]



LITTLE HANDS

Soft little hands that stray and clutch, Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold, While baby faces lie in such Close sleep as flowers at night that fold, What is it you would, clasp and hold, Wandering outstretched with wilful touch? O fingers small of shell-tipped rose, How should you know you hold so much? Two full hearts beating you inclose, Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes,— All yours to hold, O little hands! More, more than wisdom understands And love, love only knows.

Laurence Binyon [1869-



BARTHOLOMEW

Bartholomew is very sweet, From sandy hair to rosy feet.

Bartholomew is six months old, And dearer far than pearls or gold.

Bartholomew has deep blue eyes, Round pieces dropped from out the skies.

Bartholomew is hugged and kissed: He loves a flower in either fist.

Bartholomew's my saucy son: No mother has a sweeter one!

Norman Gale [1862-



THE STORM-CHILD

My child came to me with the equinox, The wild wind blew him to my swinging door, With flakes of tawny foam from off the shore, And shivering spindrift whirled across the rocks. Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow-flocks Cried him a greeting, and the lordly woods, Waving lean arms of welcome one by one, Cast down their russet cloaks and golden hoods, And bid their dancing leaflets trip and run Before the tender feet of this my son.

Therefore the sea's swift fire is in his veins, And in his heart the glory of the sea; Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade be, That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering plains. October, shot with flashing rays and rains, Inhabits all his pulses; he shall know The stress and splendor of the roaring gales, The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy tales, And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow, While in his ears the eternal bugles blow.

May Byron [1861-



"ON PARENT KNEES"

On parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled: So live, that, sinking to thy life's last sleep, Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep.

William Jones [1746-1794]

"PHILIP, MY KING" "Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king! Round whom the enshadowing purple lies Of babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With love's invisible scepter laden; I am thine Esther to command Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king.

O the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king! When those beautiful lips are suing, And some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly, Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip, my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth,—up to thy brow, Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant and make men bow As to one heaven-chosen among his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer, Let me behold thee in future years!— Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king.

—A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king! Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee, and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]



THE KING OF THE CRADLE

Draw back the cradle curtains, Kate, While watch and ward you're keeping, Let's see the monarch in his state, And view him while he's sleeping. He smiles and clasps his tiny hand, With sunbeams o'er him gleaming,— A world of baby fairyland He visits while he's dreaming.

Monarch of pearly powder-puff, Asleep in nest so cosy, Shielded from breath of breezes rough By curtains warm and rosy: He slumbers soundly in his cell, As weak as one decrepid, Though King of Coral, Lord of Bell, And Knight of Bath that's tepid.

Ah, lucky tyrant! Happy lot! Fair watchers without number, Who sweetly sing beside his cot, And hush him off to slumber; White hands in wait to smooth so neat His pillow when its rumpled— A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet, Not one of which is crumpled!

Will yonder dainty dimpled hand— Size, nothing and a quarter— E'er grasp a saber, lead a band To glory and to slaughter? Or, may I ask, will those blue eyes— In baby patois, "peepers"— E'er in the House of Commons rise, And try to catch the Speaker's?

Will that smooth brow o'er Hansard frown, Confused by lore statistic? Or will those lips e'er stir the town From pulpit ritualistic? Will e'er that tiny Sybarite Become an author noted? That little brain the world's delight, Its works by all men quoted?

Though rosy, dimpled, plump, and round Though fragile, soft, and tender, Sometimes, alas! it may be found The thread of life is slender! A little shoe, a little glove— Affection never waning— The shattered idol of our love Is all that is remaining!

Then does one chance, in fancy, hear, Small feet in childish patter, Tread soft as they a grave draw near, And voices hush their chatter; 'Tis small and new; they pause in fear, Beneath the gray church tower, To consecrate it with a tear, And deck it with a flower.

Who can predict the future, Kate— Your fondest aspiration! Who knows the solemn laws of fate, That govern all creation? Who knows what lot awaits your boy— Of happiness or sorrow? Sufficient for to-day is joy, Leave tears, Sweet, for to-morrow!

Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838-1917]



THE FIRSTBORN

So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom, And in my hands the little rosy feet. Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom; Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet.

What is it God hath given me to cherish, This living, moving wonder which is mine— Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish, Dear Lord of love divine.

Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder, This tender miracle vouchsafed to me, One with myself, yet just so far asunder That I myself may see.

Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linking New selfs with old, all things that I have been With present joys beyond my former thinking And future things unseen.

There life began, and here it links with heaven, The golden chain of years scarce dipped adown From birth, ere once again a hold is given And nearer to God's Throne.

Seen, held in arms and clasped around so tightly,— My love, my bird, I will not let thee go. Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightly Go pattering to and fro.

Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving token. Mine—yes or no, unseen its soul divine? Mine by the chain of love with links unbroken, Dear Saviour, Thine and mine.

John Arthur Goodchild [1851-



NO BABY IN THE HOUSE

No baby in the house, I know, 'Tis far too nice and clean. No toys, by careless fingers strewn, Upon the floors are seen. No finger-marks are on the panes, No scratches on the chairs; No wooden men setup in rows, Or marshaled off in pairs; No little stockings to be darned, All ragged at the toes; No pile of mending to be done, Made up of baby-clothes; No little troubles to be soothed; No little hands to fold; No grimy fingers to be washed; No stories to be told; No tender kisses to be given; No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse"; No merry frolics after tea,— No baby in the house!

Clara Dolliver [18—



OUR WEE WHITE ROSE From "The Mother's Idol Broken"

All in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Sucked the green warmth of the sod; O, beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all the world.

From out a balmy bosom Our bud of beauty grew; It fed on smiles for sunshine, On tears for daintier dew: Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee White Rose of all the world.

With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled; Revealed each hour some fairy tower Where winged hopes might build! We saw—though none like us might see— Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee White Rose of all the world.

But evermore the halo Of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight That folds some fairy feast. Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently Our darling bud uncurled, And dropped in the grave—God's lap—our wee White Rose of all the world.

Our Rose was but in blossom, Our life was but in spring, When down the solemn midnight We heard the spirits sing, "Another bud of infancy With holy dews impearled!" And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world.

You scarce could think so small a thing Could leave a loss so large; Her little light such shadow fling From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]



INTO THE WORLD AND OUT

Into the world he looked with sweet surprise; The children laughed so when they saw his eyes.

Into the world a rosy hand in doubt He reached—a pale hand took one rosebud out.

"And that was all—quite all!" No, surely! But The children cried so when his eyes were shut.

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]



"BABY SLEEPS" She is not dead, but sleepeth.—Luke viii. 52.

The baby wept; The mother took it from the nurse's arms, And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms, And baby slept.

Again it weeps, And God doth take it from the mother's arms, From present griefs, and future unknown harms, And baby sleeps.

Samuel Hinds [1793-1872]



BABY BELL

I

Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even— Its bridges, running to and fro, O'er which the white-winged Angels go, Bearing the holy Dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers: Then all the air grew strangely sweet. And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours.

II

She came and brought delicious May; The swallows built beneath the eaves; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went, the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell; And on the porch the slender vine Held out its cups of fairy wine. How tenderly the twilights fell! Oh, earth was full of singing-birds And opening springtide flowers, When the dainty Baby Bell Came to this world of ours.

III

O Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes, What poetry within them lay— Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more: Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born: We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen— The land beyond the morn; And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise,)— For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ!—our hearts bowed down Like violets after rain.

IV

And now the orchards, which were white And pink with blossoms when she came, Were rich in autumn's mellow prime; The clustered apples burnt like flame, The folded chestnut burst its shell, The grapes hung purpling, range on range; And time wrought just as rich a change In little Baby Bell. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too: We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now... Around her pale angelic brow We saw a slender ring of flame.

V

God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to us, We never held her being's key; We could not teach her holy things Who was Christ's self in purity.

VI

It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell— The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, "Oh, smite us gently, gently, God! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief." Ah! how we loved her, God can tell; Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

VII

At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands: And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair! We parted back her silken hair, We wove the roses round her brow— White buds, the summer's drifted snow— Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers... And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



IN THE NURSERY



MOTHER GOOSE'S MELODIES

—————-

Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row.

—————-

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children she didn't know what to do; She gave them some broth without any bread; Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.

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Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her; He put her in a pumpkin shell And there he kept her very well.

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Run-a-dub-dub, Three men in a tub, And who do you think they be? The butcher, the baker, The candlestick-maker; Turn 'em out, knaves all three!

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I'll tell you a story About Jack a Nory— And now my story's begun; I'll tell you another About Johnny, his brother— And now my story is done.

—————-

Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock; The clock struck one, The mouse ran down, Hickory, dickory, dock.

—————-

A dillar, a dollar, A ten o'clock scholar, What makes you come so soon? You used to come at ten o'clock But now you come at noon.

—————-

There was a little man, And he had a little gun, And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead; He shot Johnny Sprig Through the middle of his wig, And knocked it right off his head, head, head.

—————-

There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink: Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet: Yet this little old woman could never be quiet.

She went to a baker to buy her some bread, And when she came home, her husband was dead; She went to the clerk to toll the bell, And when she came back her husband was well.

—————-

If I had as much money as I could spend, I never would cry old chairs to mend; Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend; I never would cry old chairs to mend.

If I had as much money as I could tell, I never would cry old clothes to sell; Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell; I never would cry old clothes to sell.

—————-

One misty, moisty morning, When cloudy was the weather, I met a little old man Clothed all in leather; He began to bow and scrape, And I began to grin,— How do you do, and how do you do, And how do you do again?

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If all the world were apple-pie, And all the sea were ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have to drink?

—————-

Pease-pudding hot, Pease-pudding cold, Pease-pudding in the pot, Nine days old. Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, Nine days old.

—————-

Hey, diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon.

—————-

Little Jack Horner sat in the corner Eating a Christmas pie; He put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum, And said, "What a good boy am I!"

—————-

Little Miss Muffet, Sat on a tuffet, Eating of curds and whey; There came a great spider That sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.

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There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile: He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

—————-

Little Polly Flinders, Sat among the cinders, Warming her pretty little toes; Her mother came and caught her, And whipped her little daughter For spoiling her nice new clothes.

—————-

Barber, barber, shave a pig, How many hairs will make a wig? "Four-and-twenty, that's enough." Give the barber a pinch of snuff.

—————-

Little Boy Blue, come blow up your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn; But where is the boy that looks after the sheep? He's under a hay-cock, fast asleep. Will you awake him? No, not I; For if I do, he'll be sure to cry.

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There was a man of our town, And he was wondrous wise, He jumped into a bramble bush, And scratched out both his eyes:

But when he saw his eyes were out, With all his might and main, He jumped into another bush, And scratched 'em in again.

—————-

The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then, Poor thing?

He'll sit in a barn, And to keep himself warm, Will hide his head under his wing, Poor thing!

—————-

Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen; Sometimes nine, and sometimes ten, Higgleby, piggleby, my black hen.

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Three wise men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl had been stronger, My song had been longer.

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There was an old woman lived under a hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still.

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Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been? I've been to London to look at the Queen. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under the chair.

—————-

There were two blackbirds sitting on a hill, The one named Jack, the other named Jill; Fly away, Jack! Fly away, Jill! Come again, Jack! Come again, Jill!

—————-

Goosey, goosey, gander, Whither shall I wander, Up stairs, down stairs, And in my lady's chamber. There I met an old man Who would not say his prayers; I took him by his left leg And threw him down the stairs.

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Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes, sir; yes, sir, three, bags full. One for my master, one for my dame, And one for the little boy that lives in the lane.

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Bye, baby bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting To get a little rabbit-skin To wrap the baby bunting in.

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Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler, he had a fiddle, and a very fine fiddle had he; Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare, as can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three!

—————-

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, To see a fine lady ride on a white horse, Rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes.

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Hector Protector was dressed all in green; Hector Protector was sent to the Queen. The Queen did not like him, no more did the King; So Hector Protector was sent back again.

—————-

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?

—————-

Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so, betwixt them both, you see, They licked the platter clean.

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The lion and the unicorn Were fighting for the crown; The lion beat the unicorn All round about the town. Some gave them white bread, And some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake, And sent them out of town.

—————-

As Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks Were walking out one Sunday, Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks, "To-morrow will be Monday."

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Curly locks! Curly locks! Wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash dishes Nor yet feed the swine; But sit on a cushion And sew a fine seam, And feed upon strawberries, Sugar and cream.

—————-

Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go! That the miller may grind his corn; That the baker may take it and into rolls make it, And send us some hot in the morn.

—————-

Six little mice sat down to spin, Pussy passed by, and she peeped in. "What are you at, my little men?" "Making coats for gentlemen." "Shall I come in and bite off your threads?" "No, no, Miss Pussy, you'll snip off our heads." "Oh, no, I'll not, I'll help you to spin." "That may be so, but you don't come in!"

—————-

Bobby Shaftoe's gone to sea, Silver buckles at his knee; When he comes back, he'll marry me, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe's fat and fair, Combing down his yellow hair; He's my love for evermair, Bonny Bobby Shaftoe.

—————-

Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green; Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen; And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring; And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the King.

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all.

—————-

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, Home again, home again, jiggety-jig; To market, to market, to buy a fat hog, Home again, home again, jiggety-jog; To market, to market, to buy a plum bun, Home again, home again, market is done.

—————-

JACK AND JILL

Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after.

Up Jack got and home did trot As fast as he could caper, And went to bed to mend his head With vinegar and brown paper.



THE QUEEN OF HEARTS

The Queen of Hearts She made some tarts, All on a summer's day; The Knave of Hearts He stole those tarts, And with them ran away.

The King of Hearts Called for the tarts, And beat the Knave full sore; The Knave of Hearts Brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more!



LITTLE BO-PEEP

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them; Leave them alone, and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamed she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For they were still a-fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left their tails behind them!

It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray, Unto a meadow hard by, There she espied their tails side by side, All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks she raced; And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should, That each tail should be properly placed.



MARY'S LAMB

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day— That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school.

And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear; And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said—"I'm not afraid— You'll keep me from all harm."

"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" The eager children cry— "O, Mary loves the lamb, you know," The Teacher did reply;— "And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind."

Sarah Josepha Hale [1788-1879]



THE STAR

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is set, And the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark, He could not see where to go If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824)



"SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE"

Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four-and-twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie;

When the pie was opened The birds began to sing; Wasn't that a dainty dish To set before the King?

The King was in his counting-house, Counting out his money; The Queen was in the parlor, Eating bread and honey;

The maid was in the garden Hanging out the clothes; When down came a blackbird, And nipped off her nose.



SIMPLE SIMON

Simple Simon met a pieman Going to the fair; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware."

Says the pieman to Simple Simon, "Show me first your penny"; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Indeed I have not any."

Simple Simon went a-fishing For to catch a whale; All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail.

Simple Simon went to look If plums grew on a thistle; He pricked his fingers very much, Which made poor Simon whistle.



A PLEASANT SHIP

I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea, And oh! it was all laden With pretty things for thee!

There were comfits in the cabin, And apples in the hold; The sails were made of silk, And the masts were made of gold.

The four-and-twenty sailors That stood between the decks Were four-and-twenty white mice, With chains about their necks.

The captain was a duck, With a packet on his back, And when the ship began to move, The captain said "Quack! Quack!"



"I HAD A LITTLE HUSBAND"

I had a little husband No bigger than my thumb; I put him in a pint pot, And there I bade him drum.

I bought a little horse, That galloped up and down; I bridled him and saddled him, And sent him out of town.

I gave him some garters, To garter up his hose, And a little handkerchief, To wipe his pretty nose.



"WHEN I WAS A BACHELOR"

When I was a bachelor I lived by myself; And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon the shelf.

The rats and the mice They made such a strife, I was forced to go to London To buy me a wife.

The streets were so bad, And the lanes were so narrow, I was forced to bring my wife home In a wheelbarrow.

The wheelbarrow broke, And my wife had a fall, Down came wheelbarrow, Little wife and all.



"JOHNNY SHALL HAVE A NEW BONNET"

Johnny shall have a new bonnet, And Johnny shall go to the fair, And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon To tie up his bonny brown hair.

And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny As well as another body?

And here's a leg for a stocking, And here's a foot for a shoe; And he has a kiss for his daddy, And one for his mammy, too.

And why may not I love Johnny, And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny, As well as another body?



THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE

The city mouse lives in a house;— The garden mouse lives in a bower, He's friendly with the frogs and toads, And sees the pretty plants in flower.

The city mouse eats bread and cheese;— The garden mouse eats what he can; We will not grudge him seeds and stocks, Poor little timid furry man.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]



ROBIN REDBREAST

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree, Up went pussy-cat, and down went he; Down came pussy-cat, and away Robin ran; Said little Robin Redbreast, "Catch me if you can."

Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a wall, Pussy-cat jumped after him, and almost got a fall; Little Robin chirped and sang, and what did pussy say? Pussy-cat said naught but "Mew," and Robin flew away.



SOLOMON GRUNDY

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, This is the end of Solomon Grundy.



"MERRY ARE THE BELLS"

Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring, Merry was myself, and merry could I sing; With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free, And a merry sing-song, happy let us be!

Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose: Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose: Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free; With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!

Merry have we met, and merry have we been; Merry let us part, and merry meet again; With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free, With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!



"WHEN GOOD KING ARTHUR RULED THIS LAND"

When good King Arthur ruled this land, He was a goodly king; He stole three pecks of barley meal, To make a bag-pudding.

A bag-pudding the queen did make, And stuffed it well with plums: And in it put great lumps of fat, As big as my two thumbs.

The king and queen did eat thereof, And noblemen beside; And what they could not eat that night, The queen next morning fried.



THE BELLS OF LONDON

Gay go up, and gay go down, To ring the bells of London town.

Bull's eyes and targets, Say the bells of Saint Marg'ret's.

Brickbats and tiles, Say the bells of Saint Giles'.

Half-pence and farthings, Say the bells of Saint Martin's.

Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of Saint Clement's.

Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of Saint Peter's.

Two sticks and an apple, Say the bells of Whitechapel.

Old Father Baldpate, Say the slow bells at Aldgate.

Pokers and tongs, Say the bells of Saint John's.

Kettles and pans, Say the bells of Saint Ann's.

You owe me ten shillings, Say the bells of Saint Helen's.

When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey.

When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch.

Pray, when will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.

I am sure I don't know, Says the great bell at Bow.



THE OWL, THE EEL AND THE WARMING-PAN

The owl and the eel and the warming-pan, They went to call on the soap-fat man. The soap-fat man he was not within: He'd gone for a ride on his rolling-pin. So they all came back by the way of the town, And turned the meeting-house upside down.

Laura E. Richards [1850-



THE COW

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day, and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, They will make it very sweet.

Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine.

Ann Taylor [1782-1866]



THE LAMB

Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, Little Lamb, I'll tell thee; He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb, God bless thee.

William Blake [1757-1827]



LITTLE RAINDROPS

Oh, where do you come from, You little drops of rain, Pitter patter, pitter patter, Down the window-pane?

They won't let me walk, And they won't let me play, And they won't let me go Out of doors at all to-day.

They put away my playthings Because I broke them all, And then they locked up all my bricks, And took away my ball.

Tell me, little raindrops, Is that the way you play, Pitter patter, pitter patter, All the rainy day?

They say I'm very naughty, But I've nothing else to do But sit here at the window; I should like to play with you.

The little raindrops cannot speak, But "pitter, patter pat" Means, "We can play on this side: Why can't you play on that?"



"MOON, SO ROUND AND YELLOW"

Moon, so round and yellow, Looking from on high, How I love to see you Shining in the sky. Oft and oft I wonder, When I see you there, How they get to light you, Hanging in the air:

Where you go at morning, When the night is past, And the sun comes peeping O'er the hills at last. Sometime I will watch you Slyly overhead, When you think I'm sleeping Snugly in my bed.

Matthias Barr [1831-?]



THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cock that crowed in the morn That waked the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the farmer sowing his corn That kept the cock that crowed in the morn That waked the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built.



OLD MOTHER HUBBARD

Old Mother Hubbard Went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone: But when she got there The cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none.

She went to the baker's To buy him some bread, But when she came back The poor dog was dead.

She went to the joiner's To buy him a coffin, But when she came back The poor dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish To get him some tripe, But when she came back He was smoking a pipe.

She went to the fishmonger's To buy him some fish, But when she came back He was licking the dish.

She went to the tavern For white wine and red, But when she came back The dog stood on his head.

She went to the hatter's To buy him a hat, But when she came back He was feeding the cat.

She went to the barber's To buy him a wig, But when she came back He was dancing a jig.

She went to the fruiterer's To buy him some fruit, But when she came back He was playing the flute.

She went to the tailor's To buy him a coat, But when she came back He was riding a goat.

She went to the cobbler's To buy him some shoes, But when she came back He was reading the news.

She went to the seamstress To buy him some linen, But when she came back The dog was spinning.

She went to the hosier's To buy him some hose, But when she came back He was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtesy, The dog made a bow, The dame said, "Your servant," The dog said, "Bow-wow."

This wonderful dog Was Dame Hubbard's delight; He could sing, he could dance, He could read, he could write.

She gave him rich dainties Whenever he fed, And built him a monument When he was dead.



THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF COCK ROBIN

Who killed Cock Robin? "I," said the Sparrow, "With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."

Who saw him die? "I'" said the Fly, "With my little eye, I saw him die."

Who caught his blood? "I," said the Fish, "With my little dish, I caught his blood."

Who'll make his shroud? "I," said the Beetle, "With my thread and needle, I'll make his shroud."

Who'll dig his grave? "I," said the Owl, "With my spade and trowel, I'll dig his grave."

Who'll be the parson? "I," said the Rook, "With my little book. I'll be the parson."

Who'll be the clerk? "I," said the Lark, "I'll say Amen in the dark; I'll be the clerk."

Who'll be chief mourner? "I," said the Dove, "I mourn for my love; I'll be chief mourner."

Who'll bear the torch? "I," said the Linnet, "I'll come in a minute, I'll bear the torch."

Who'll sing his dirge? "I," said the thrush. "As I sing in the bush I'll sing his dirge."

Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren, Both the Cock and the Hen; "We'll bear the pall."

Who'll carry his coffin? "I," said the Kite, "If it be in the night, I'll carry his coffin."

Who'll toll the bell? "I," said the Bull, "Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."

All the birds of the air Fell to sighing and sobbing When they heard the bell toll For poor Cock Robin.



BABY-LAND

"Which is the way to Baby-land?" "Any one can tell; Up one flight, To your right; Please to ring the bell."

"What can you see in Baby-land?" "Little folks in white— Downy heads, Cradle-beds, Faces pure and bright!"

"What do they do in Baby-land?" "Dream and wake and play, Laugh and crow, Shout and grow; Jolly times have they!"

"What do they say in Baby-land?" "Why, the oddest things; Might as well Try to tell What a birdie sings!"

"Who is the Queen of Baby-land?" "Mother, kind and sweet; And her love, Born above, Guides the little feet."

George Cooper [1840-1927]



THE FIRST TOOTH

There once was a wood, and a very thick wood, So thick that to walk was as much as you could; But a sunbeam got in, and the trees understood.

I went to this wood, at the end of the snows, And as I was walking I saw a primrose; Only one! Shall I show you the place where it grows?

There once was a house, and a very dark house, As dark, I believe, as the hole of a mouse, Or a tree in my wood, at the thick of the boughs.

I went to this house, and I searched it aright, I opened the chambers, and I found a light; Only one! Shall I show you this little lamp bright?

There once was a cave, and this very dark cave One day took a gift from an incoming wave; And I made up my mind to know what the sea gave.

I took a lit torch, I walked round the ness When the water was lowest; and in a recess In my cave was a jewel. Will nobody guess?

O there was a baby, he sat on my knee, With a pearl in his mouth that was precious to me, His little dark mouth like my cave of the sea!

I said to my heart, "And my jewel is bright! He blooms like a primrose! He shines like a light!" Put your hand in his mouth! Do you feel? He can bite!

William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]



BABY'S BREAKFAST

Baby wants his breakfast, Oh! what shall I do? Said the cow, "I'll give him Nice fresh milk—moo-oo!"

Said the hen, "Cut-dah cut! I have laid an egg For the Baby's breakfast— Take it now, I beg!"

And the buzzing bee said, "Here is honey sweet. Don't you think the Baby Would like that to eat?"

Then the baker kindly Brought the Baby's bread. "Breakfast is all ready," Baby's mother said;

"But before the Baby Eats his dainty food, Will he not say 'Thank you!' To his friends so good?"

Then the bonny Baby Laughed and laughed away. That was all the "Thank you" He knew how to say.

Emilie Poulsson [1853-



THE MOON

O, look at the moon! She is shining up there; O mother, she looks Like a lamp in the air.

Last week she was smaller, And shaped like a bow; But now she's grown bigger, And round as an O.

Pretty moon, pretty moon, How you shine on the door, And make it all bright On my nursery floor!

You shine on my playthings, And show me their place, And I love to look up At your pretty bright face.

And there is a star Close by you, and maybe That small twinkling star Is your little baby.

Eliza Lee Fallen [1787-1859]



BABY AT PLAY

Brow bender, Eye peeper, Nose smeller, Mouth eater, Chin chopper, Knock at the door—peep in, Lift up the latch—walk in.

Here sits the Lord Mayor, here sit his two men, Here sits the cock, and here sits the hen; Here sit the chickens, and here they go in, Chippety, chippety, chippety, chin.

This little pig went to market; This little pig stayed at home; This little pig got roast beef; This little pig got none; This little pig cried wee, wee, all the way home.

One, two, Buckle my shoe; Three, four, Shut the door; Five, six, Pick up sticks; Seven, eight, Lay them straight; Nine, ten, A good fat hen; Eleven, twelve, Who will delve? Thirteen, fourteen, Maids a-courting; Fifteen, sixteen, Maids a-kissing; Seventeen, eighteen, Maids a-waiting; Nineteen, twenty, My stomach's empty.



THE DIFFERENCE

Eight fingers, Ten toes, Two eyes, And one nose. Baby said When she smelt the rose, "Oh! what a pity I've only one nose!"

Ten teeth In even rows, Three dimples, And one nose. Baby said When she smelt the snuff, "Deary me! One nose is enough."

Laura E. Richards [1850-



FOOT SOLDIERS

'Tis all the way to Toe-town, Beyond the Knee-high hill, That Baby has to travel down To see the soldiers drill.

One, two, three, four, five, a-row— A captain and his men— And on the other side, you know, Are six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]



TOM THUMB'S ALPHABET

A was an Archer, who shot at a frog; B was a Butcher, who had a great dog; C was a Captain, all covered with lace; D was a Drunkard, and had a red face; E was an Esquire, with pride on his brow; F was a Farmer, and followed the plow; G was a Gamester, who had but ill luck; H was a Hunter, who hunted a buck; I was an Innkeeper, who loved to bouse; J was a Joiner, who built up a house; K was a King, so mighty and grand; L was a Lady, who had a white hand; M was a Miser, and hoarded his gold; N was a Nobleman, gallant and bold; O was an Oysterman, who went about town; P was a Parson, and wore a black gown; Q was a Quack, with a wonderful pill; R was a Robber, who wanted to kill; S was a Sailor, who spent all he got; T was a Tinker, and mended a pot; U was an Usurer, a miserable elf; V was a Vintner, who drank all himself; W was a Watchman, who guarded the door; X was Expensive, and so became poor; Y was a Youth, that did not love school; Z was a Zany, a poor harmless fool.



GRAMMAR IN RHYME

Three little words, you often see, Are articles A, An, and The. A Noun is the name of anything, As School, or Garden, Hoop, or Swing. Adjectives tell the kind of Noun, As Great, Small, Pretty, White, or Brown. Instead of Nouns the Pronouns stand, Her head, His face, Your arm, My hand. Verbs tell something being done— To Read, Count, Laugh, Sing, Jump, or Run. How things are done the Adverbs tell, As Slowly, Quickly, Ill, or Well. Conjunctions join the words together— As men And women, wind Or weather. The Preposition stands before A noun, as In or Through a door, The Interjection shows surprise, As Oh! how pretty! Ah! how wise! The Whole are called nine parts of speech, Which reading, writing, speaking teach.



DAYS OF THE MONTH

Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; All the rest have thirty-one; February twenty-eight alone,— Except in leap year, at which time February's days are twenty-nine.



THE GARDEN YEAR

January brings the snow, Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain, Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes, loud and shrill, To stir the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet, Scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers, Apricots, and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn, Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit; Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant; Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast; Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

Sara Coleridge [1802-1852]



RIDDLES

There was a girl in our town, Silk an' satin was her gown, Silk an' satin, gold an' velvet, Guess her name, three times I've telled it. (Ann.)

As soft as silk, as white as milk, As bitter as gall, a thick green wall, And a green coat covers me all. (A walnut.)

Make three fourths of a cross, And a circle complete; And let two semicircles On a perpendicular meet; Next add a triangle That stands on two feet; Next two semicircles, And a circle complete. (TOBACCO.)

Flour of England, fruit of Spain, Met together in a shower of rain; Put in a bag tied round with a string, If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a ring. (A plum-pudding.)

In marble walls as white as milk, Lined with a skin as soft as silk, Within a fountain crystal clear, A golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold, Yet thieves break in and steal the gold. (An egg.)

Little Nanny Etticoat, In a white petticoat, And a red nose; The longer she stands, The shorter she grows. (A candle.)

Long legs, crooked thighs, Little head and no eyes. (A pair of tongs.)

Thirty white horses upon a red hill, Now they tramp, now they champ, now they stand still. (The teeth.)

Formed long ago, yet made to-day, Employed while others sleep; What few would like to give away, Nor any wish to keep. (A bed.)

Lives in winter, Dies in summer, And grows with its root upwards. (An icicle.)

Elizabeth, Lizzy, Betsy and Bess, All went together to seek a bird's nest; They found a nest with five eggs in it; They each took one and left four in it.

Thomas a Tattamus took two T's, To tie two tups to two tall trees, To frighten the terrible Thomas a Tattamus! Tell me how many T's there are in all THAT!

Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye, And a long tail which she let fly; And every time she went over a gap, She left a bit of her tail in a trap. (A needle and thread.)

As I went through a garden gap, Who should I meet but Dick Red-Cap! A stick in his hand, a stone in his throat, If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat. (A cherry.)

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; All the king's horses and all the king's men Cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again. (An egg.)

As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, Every wife had seven sacks, Every sack had seven cats, Every cat had seven kits— Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were going to St. Ives? (One.)

Two legs sat upon three legs, With one leg in his lap; In comes four legs And runs away with one leg; Up jumps two legs, Catches up three legs, Throws it after four legs, And makes him drop one leg. (A man, a stool, a leg of mutton, and a dog.)



PROVERBS

If wishes were horses, Beggars would ride; If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side.

A man of words, and not of deeds, Is like a garden full of weeds; For when the weeds begin to grow, Then doth the garden overflow.

He that would thrive Must rise at five; He that hath thriven May lie till seven; And he that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive.

A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly.

They that wash on Monday Have all the week to dry; They that wash on Tuesday Are not so much awry; They that wash on Wednesday Are not so much to blame; They that wash on Thursday, Wash for shame; They that wash on Friday, Wash in need; And they that wash on Saturday, Oh, they are slovens, indeed.

Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries, his trouble begins.

For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, try and find it; If there be none, never mind it.

Tommy's tears, and Mary's fears, Will make them old before their years.

If "ifs" and "ands" Were pots and pans, There would be no need for tinkers!

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; For want of the shoe, the horse was lost; For want of the horse, the rider was lost; For want of the rider, the battle was lost; For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost; And all from the want of a horseshoe nail.



KIND HEARTS

Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the blossoms, Kind deeds are the fruits; Love is the sweet sunshine That warms into life, For only in darkness Grow hatred and strife.



WEATHER WISDOM

A sunshiny shower Won't last half an hour.

Rain before seven, Fair by eleven.

The South wind brings wet weather, The North wind wet and cold together; The West wind always brings us rain, The East wind blows it back again.

March winds and April showers Bring forth May flowers.

Evening red and morning gray Set the traveller on his way, But evening gray and morning red, Bring the rain upon his head.

Rainbow at night Is the sailor's delight; Rainbow at morning, Sailors, take warning.



OLD SUPERSTITIONS

See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck; See a pin and let it lay, Bad luck you will have all day.

Cut your nails on Monday, cut them for news; Cut them on Tuesday, a pair of new shoes; Cut them on Wednesday, cut them for health; Cut them on Thursday, cut them for wealth; Cut them on Friday, cut them for woe; Cut them on Saturday, a journey you'll go; Cut them on Sunday, you'll cut them for evil, For all the next week you'll be ruled by the devil.

Marry Monday, marry for wealth; Marry Tuesday, marry for health; Marry Wednesday, the best day of all; Marry Thursday, marry for crosses; Marry Friday, marry for losses; Marry Saturday, no luck at all.

Sneeze on a Monday, you sneeze for danger; Sneeze on a Tuesday, you'll kiss a stranger; Sneeze on a Wednesday, you sneeze for a letter; Sneeze on a Thursday, for something better; Sneeze on a Friday, you sneeze for sorrow; Sneeze on a Saturday, your sweetheart to-morrow; Sneeze on a Sunday, your safety seek— The devil will have you the whole of the week.

Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for its living, And a child that's born on the Sabbath day Is fair and wise and good and gay.



THE ROAD TO SLUMBERLAND



WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD Dutch Lullaby

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,— Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!" Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea— "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,— Never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam,— Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home: 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:— Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Eugene Field [1850-1895]



THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? 'Tis a marvel of great renown! It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop sea In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet (As those who have tasted it say) That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day.

When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below— And this is the way you contrive to get at Those sugar-plums tempting you so:

You say but the word to that gingerbread dog And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest. And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground— Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains, As much as your apron can hold! So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

Eugene Field [1850-1895]



WHEN THE SLEEPY MAN COMES

When the Sleepy Man comes with the dust on his eyes, (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) He shuts up the earth, and he opens the skies. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He smiles through his fingers, and shuts up the sun; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) The stars that he loves he lets out one by one. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He comes from the castles of Drowsy-boy Town; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) At the touch of his hand the tired eyelids fall down. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

He comes with a murmur of dream in his wings; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) And whispers of mermaids and wonderful things. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

Then the top is a burden, the bugle a bane; (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) When one would be faring down Dream-a-way Lane. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

When one would be wending in Lullaby Wherry, (Oh, weary, my Dearie, so weary!) To Sleepy Man's Castle, by Comforting Ferry. (So hush-a-by, weary my Dearie!)

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-



AULD DADDY DARKNESS

Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, Black as a blackamoor, blin' as a mole: Stir the fire till it lowes, let the bairnie sit, Auld Daddy Darkness is no wantit yit.

See him in the corners hidin' frae the licht, See him at the window gloomin' at the nicht; Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far awa'.

Awa' to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, Awa' to lap the wee flooers on their mither's breast, Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca', For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'.

He comes when we're weary to wean's frae oor waes, He comes when the bairnies are getting aff their claes; To cover them sae cosy, an' bring bonnie dreams, So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he seems.

Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye'll see Daddy then; He's in below the bed claes, to cuddle ye he's fain; Noo nestle to his bosie, sleep and dream yer fill, Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre the hill.

James Ferguson [18—?]



WILLIE WINKIE

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Upstairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?—for it's noo ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Onything but sleep, ye rogue!—glowrin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what—wauknin' sleepin' folk!

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums: Hey, Willie Winkie!—See, there he comes!

William Miller [1810-1872]



THE SANDMAN

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down; And now the sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town. "White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away— Yes, in another land— He gathers up at break of day His stone of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes; And every child right well he knows,— Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting in the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

Margaret Thomson Janvier [1845-1913]



THE DUSTMAN

When the toys are growing weary, And the twilight gathers in; When the nursery still echoes With the children's merry din; Then unseen, unheard, unnoticed Comes an old man up the stair, Lightly to the children passes, Lays his hand upon their hair.

Softly smiles the good old Dustman; In their eyes the dust he throws, Till their little heads are falling, And their weary eyes must close. Then the Dustman very gently Takes each little dimpled hand Leads them through the sweet green shadows, Far away in slumberland.

Frederic Edward Weatherly [1848-1929]



SEPHESTIA'S LULLABY From "Menaphon"

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Mother's wag, pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe; Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy, Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl-drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another's place supplies; Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt; More he crowed, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide: He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bliss, For he left his pretty boy, Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]



"GOLDEN SLUMBERS KISS YOUR EYES" From "Patient Grissel"

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, Smiles awake you when you rise. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, You are care, and care must keep you. Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, And I will sing a lullaby. Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

Thomas Dekker [1570?-1641?]



"SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP"

Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy father dear, His holy Spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou art now made. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear; For whosoever thee offends By thy protector threatened are, And God and angels are thy friends. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When God with us was dwelling here, In little babes He took delight; Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A little infant once was He; And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His Virgin Mother's knee, That power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this thy frailty and thy need He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, For of thy weal they tender are. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of Kings when He was born, Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay and asses fed: Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle for a bed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee, And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

George Wither [1588-1667]



MOTHER'S SONG

My heart is like a fountain true That flows and flows with love to you. As chirps the lark unto the tree So chirps my pretty babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

There's not a rose where'er I seek, As comely as my baby's cheek. There's not a comb of honey-bee, So full of sweets as babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

There's not a star that shines on high, Is brighter than my baby's eye. There's not a boat upon the sea, Can dance as baby does to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

No silk was ever spun so fine As is the hair of baby mine. My baby smells more sweet to me Than smells in spring the elder tree. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

A little fish swims in the well, So in my heart does baby dwell. A little flower blows on the tree, My baby is the flower to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball, You are my sceptre, crown and all. For all her robes of royal silk, More fair your skin, as white as milk. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

Ten thousand parks where deer do run, Ten thousand roses in the sun, Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea, My babe more precious is to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

Unknown



A LULLABY

Upon my lap my sovereign sits And sucks upon my breast; Meanwhile his love sustains my life And gives my body rest. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast, Repose, my babe, on me; So may thy mother and thy nurse Thy cradle also be. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work All that my wishing would, Because I would not be to thee But in the best I should. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may, I must and will be thine, Though all too little for thy self Vouchsafing to be mine. Sing lullaby, my little boy, Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Richard Rowlands [fl. 1565-1620]



A CRADLE HYMN

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed! Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment: All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of God could be, When from heaven He descended And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay.

Blessed babe! what glorious features— Spotless fair, divinely bright! Must He dwell with brutal creatures? How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford To receive the heavenly stranger? Did they thus affront their Lord?

Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; 'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful story How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of Glory, Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round Him, Telling wonders from the sky! Where they sought Him, there they found Him, With His Virgin mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how He smiled! When He wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, Where the horned oxen fed; Peace, my darling; here's no danger, Here's no ox anear thy bed.

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.

May'st thou live to know and fear Him, Trust and love Him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near Him, See His face, and sing His praise!

Isaac Watts [1674-1748]



CRADLE SONG

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, Dreaming in the joys of night; Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel Smiles as of the morning steal O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep In thy little heart asleep! When thy little heart doth wake, Then the dreadful night shall break.

William Blake [1757-1827]



LULLABY

Baloo, loo, lammy, now baloo, my dear, Does wee lammy ken that its daddy's no here? Ye're rocking full sweetly on mammy's warm knee, But daddy's a-rocking upon the salt sea.

Now hushaby, lammy, now hushaby, dear; Now hushaby, lammy, for mother is near. The wild wind is raving, and mammy's heart's sair; The wild wind is raving, and ye dinna care.

Sing baloo, loo, lammy, sing baloo, my dear; Sing baloo, loo, lammy, for mother is here. My wee bairnie's dozing, it's dozing now fine, And O may its wakening be blither than mine!

Carolina Nairne [1763-1845]



LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF

O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.

Walter Scott [1771-1832]



GOOD-NIGHT

Little baby, lay your head On your pretty cradle-bed; Shut your eye-peeps, now the day And the light are gone away; All the clothes are tucked in tight; Little baby dear, good-night.

Yes, my darling, well I know How the bitter wind doth blow; And the winter's snow and rain Patter on the window-pane: But they cannot come in here, To my little baby dear;

For the window shutteth fast, Till the stormy night is past; And the curtains warm are spread Round about her cradle bed: So till morning shineth bright, Little baby dear, good-night.

Jane Taylor [1783-1824]



"LULLABY, O LULLABY"

Lullaby! O lullaby! Baby, hush that little cry! Light is dying, Bats are flying, Bees to-day with work have done; So, till comes the morrow's sun, Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry! Lullaby! O lullaby.

Lullaby! O lullaby! Hushed are all things far and nigh; Flowers are closing, Birds reposing, All sweet things with life are done. Sweet, till dawns the morning sun, Sleep, then kiss those blue eyes dry. Lullaby! O lullaby!

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]



LULLABY From "The Princess"

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

The days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth; The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse; Then why so busy thou?

Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane bedropped with rain: There, little darling! sleep again, And wake when it is day!

Dorothy Wordsworth [1804-1847]



TROT, TROT!

Every evening Baby goes Trot, trot, to town, Across the river, through the fields, Up hill and down.

Trot, trot, the Baby goes, Up hill and down, To buy a feather for her hat, To buy a woolen gown.

Trot, trot, the Baby goes; The birds fly down, alack! "You cannot have our feathers, dear," They say, "so please trot back."

Trot, trot, the Baby goes; The lambs come bleating near. "You cannot have our wool," they say, "But we are sorry, dear."

Trot, trot, the Baby goes, Trot, trot, to town; She buys a red rose for her hat, She buys a cotton gown.

Mary F. Butts [1836-1902]



HOLY INNOCENTS

Sleep, little Baby, sleep; The holy Angels love thee, And guard thy bed, and keep A blessed watch above thee. No spirit can come near Nor evil beast to harm thee: Sleep, Sweet, devoid of fear Where nothing need alarm thee.

The Love which doth not sleep, The eternal Arms surround thee: The Shepherd of the sheep In perfect love hath found thee. Sleep through the holy night, Christ-kept from snare and sorrow, Until thou wake to light And love and warmth to-morrow.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]



LULLABY From "The Mistress of the Manse"

Rockaby, lullaby, bees in the clover! Crooning so drowsily, crying so low, Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Down into wonderland, Down to the under-land Go, oh go! Down into wonderland go!

Rockaby, lullaby, rain on the clover! (Tears on the eyelids that waver and weep!) Rockaby, lullaby—bending it over! Down on the mother-world, Down on the other world, Sleep, oh sleep! Down on the mother-world sleep!

Rockaby, lullaby, dew on the clover! Dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn! Rockaby, lullaby, dear little rover! Into the stilly world, Into the lily world, Gone! oh gone! Into the lily world gone!

Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]



CRADLE SONG From "Bitter-Sweet"

What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt! Unwritten history! Unfathomed mystery! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx! Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years; And he'll never know Where the summers go;— He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!

Who can tell what a baby thinks? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the mannikin feels his way Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day?— Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony;— Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls,— Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide! What does he think of his mother's eyes? What does he think of his mother's hair? What of the cradle-roof, that flies Forward and backward through the air? What does he think of his mother's breast, Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight,— Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds,— Words she has learned to murmur well? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, Over his brow, and over his lips, Out to his little finger-tips! Softly sinking, down he goes! Down he goes! down he goes! See! he is hushed in sweet repose!

Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]



AN IRISH LULLABY

I've found my bonny babe a nest On Slumber Tree, I'll rock you there to rosy rest, Asthore Machree! Oh, lulla lo! sing all the leaves On Slumber Tree, Till everything that hurts or grieves Afar must flee.

I've put my pretty child to float Away from me, Within the new moon's silver boat On Slumber Sea. And when your starry sail is o'er From Slumber Sea, My precious one, you'll step to shore On Mother's knee.

Alfred Perceval Graves [1846-1931]



CRADLE SONG

I

Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice When at last a little boy's Cheek lies heavy as a rose, And his eyelids close?

Gabriel, when that hush may be, This sweet hand all heedfully I'll undo, for thee alone, From his mother's own.

Then the far blue highways paven With the burning stars of heaven, He shall gladden with the sweet Hasting of his feet—

Feet so brightly bare and cool, Leaping, as from pool to pool; From a little laughing boy Splashing rainbow joy!

Gabriel, wilt thou understand How to keep his hovering hand— Never shut, as in a bond, From the bright beyond?—

Nay, but though it cling and close Tightly as a climbing rose, Clasp it only so—aright, Lest his heart take fright.

(Dormi, dormi tu: The dusk is hung with blue.)

II

Lord Michael, wilt not thou rejoice When at last a little boy's Heart, a shut-in murmuring bee, Turns him unto thee?

Wilt thou heed thine armor well— To take his hand from Gabriel, So his radiant cup of dream May not spill a gleam?

He will take thy heart in thrall, Telling o'er thy breastplate, all Colors, in his bubbling speech, With his hand to each.

(Dormi, dormi tu. Sapphire is the blue: Pearl and beryl, they are called, Chrysoprase and emerald, Sard and amethyst. Numbered so, and kissed.)

Ah, but find some angel word For thy sharp, subduing sword! Yea, Lord Michael, make no doubt He will find it out:

(Dormi, dormi tu! His eyes will look at you.)

III

Last, a little morning space, Lead him to that leafy place Where Our Lady sits awake, For all mothers' sake.

Bosomed with the Blessed One, He shall mind her of her Son, Once so folded from all harms, In her shrining arms.

(In her veil of blue, Dormi, dormi tu.)

So;—and fare thee well. Softly,—Gabriel... When the first faint red shall come, Bid the Day-star lead him home, For the bright world's sake— To my heart, awake.

Josephine Preston Peabody [1874-1922]



MOTHER-SONG FROM "PRINCE LUCIFER"

White little hands! Pink little feet! Dimpled all over, Sweet, sweet, sweet! What dost thou wail for? The unknown? the unseen? The ills that are coming, The joys that have been?

Cling to me closer, Closer and closer, Till the pain that is purer Hath banished the grosser. Drain, drain at the stream, love, Thy hunger is freeing, That was born in a dream, love, Along with thy being!

Little fingers that feel For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries, Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, Lies soft on thine eyes.

Alfred Austin [1835-1913]



KENTUCKY BABE

'Skeeters am a hummin' on de honeysuckle vine,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! Sandman am a comin' to dis little coon of mine,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! Silv'ry moon am shinin' in de heabens up above, Bobolink am pinin' fo' his little lady love: Yo' is mighty lucky, Babe of old Kentucky,— Close yo' eyes in sleep.

Fly away, Fly away, Kentucky Babe, fly away to rest, Fly away, Lay yo' kinky, woolly head on yo' mammy's breast,— Um—Um—, Close yo' eyes in sleep.

Daddy's in de cane-brake wid his little dog and gun,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! 'Possum fo' yo' breakfast when yo' sleepin' time is done,— Sleep, Kentucky Babe! Bogie man'll catch yo' sure unless yo' close yo' eyes, Waitin' jes outside de doo' to take yo' by surprise: Bes' be keepin' shady, Little colored lady,— Close yo' eyes in sleep.

Richard Henry Buck [1869-



MINNIE AND WINNIE

Minnie and Winnie slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well.

Pink was the shell within, silver without; Sounds of the great sea wandered about.

Sleep, little ladies! Wake not soon! Echo on echo dies to the moon.

Two bright stars peeped into the shell. "What are they dreaming of? Who can tell?"

Started a green linnet out of the croft; Wake, little ladies! The sun is aloft.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



BED-TIME SONG

Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Chickens run to mother hen; Piggy curls up in the pen. In the field, all tired with play, Quiet now the lambkins stay. Kittens cuddle in a heap— Baby, too, must go to sleep!

Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Now the cows from pasture come; Bees fly home with drowsy hum. Little birds are in the nest, Under mother-bird's soft breast. Over all soft shadows creep— Baby now must go to sleep.

Sleep, my baby, while I sing Bed-time news of everything. Sleepy flowers seem to nod, Drooping toward the dewy sod; While the big sun's fading light Bids my baby dear good-night. Mother loving watch will keep; Baby now must go to sleep.

Emilie Poulsson [1853-



TUCKING THE BABY IN

The dark-fringed eyelids slowly close On eyes serene and deep; Upon my breast my own sweet child Has gently dropped to sleep; I kiss his soft and dimpled cheek, I kiss his rounded chin, Then lay him on his little bed, And tuck my baby in.

How fair and innocent he lies; Like some small angel strayed, His face still warmed by God's own smile, That slumbers unafraid; Or like some new embodied soul, Still pure from taint of sin— My thoughts are reverent as I stoop To tuck my baby in.

What toil must stain these tiny hands That now lie still and white? What shadows creep across the face That shines with morning light? These wee pink shoeless feet—how far Shall go their lengthening tread, When they no longer cuddled close May rest upon this bed?

O what am I that I should train An angel for the skies; Or mix the potent draught that feeds The soul within these eyes? I reach him up to the sinless Hands Before his cares begin,— Great Father, with Thy folds of love, O tuck my baby in.

Curtis May [18 —



"JENNY WI' THE AIRN TEETH"

What a plague is this o' mine, Winna steek an e'e; Though I hap him o'er the heid, As cosy as can be. Sleep an' let me to my wark— A' thae claes to airn— Jenny wi' the airn teeth, Come an' tak' the bairn!

Tak' him to your ain den, Whaur the bogie bides, But first put baith your big teeth In his wee plump sides; Gie your auld gray pow a shake, Rive him frae my grup, Tak' him whaur nae kiss is gaun When he waukens up.

Whatna noise is that I hear Coomin' doon the street? Weel I ken the dump, dump, O' her beetle feet; Mercy me! she's at the door! Hear her lift the sneck; Wheesht, an' cuddle mammy noo, Closer roun' the neck.

Jenny wi' the airn teeth, The bairn has aff his claes; Sleepin' safe an' soun', I think— Dinna touch his taes.

Sleepin' bairns are no for you, Ye may turn aboot, An' tak' awa' wee Tam next door— I hear him screichin' oot.

Dump, dump, awa' she gangs Back the road she cam', I hear her at the ither door, Speirin' after Tam; He's a crabbit, greetin' thing— The warst in a' the toon, Little like my ain wee wean— Losh, he's sleepin' soun'!

Mithers hae an awfu' wark Wi' their bairns at nicht, Chappin' on the chair wi' tangs, To gie the rogues a fricht; Aulder bairns are fleyed wi' less, Weel eneuch we ken, Bigger bogies, bigger Jennies, Frichten muckle men.

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]



CUDDLE DOON

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' muckie faucht an' din, "O, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your father's comin' in." They never heed a word I speak; I try to gie a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid— He aye sleeps next the wa'— Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece;" The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun'; Then draw the blankets up an' cry, "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at once— He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon; But aye I hap them up an' cry, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

At length they hear their father's fit, An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aff his shoon; "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon."

An' just afore we bed oorsel's, We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An' as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear to me; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet, come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "O bairnies, cuddle doon."

Alexander Anderson [1845-1909]



BEDTIME

'Tis bedtime; say your hymn, and bid "Good-night; God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all." Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, Another minute, you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall! What will you give me, sleepy one, and call My wages, if I settle you all right?

I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand, Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm She nestled to me, and, by Love's command, Paid me my precious wages—"Baby's Kiss."

Francis Robert St. Clair Erskine [1833-1890]



THE DUTY OF CHILDREN



HAPPY THOUGHT

The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN

A child should always say what's true And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table; At least as far as he is able.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]



POLITENESS

Good little boys should never say "I will," and "Give me these"; O, no! that never is the way, But "Mother, if you please."

And "If you please," to Sister Ann Good boys to say are ready; And, "Yes, sir," to a Gentleman, And, "Yes, ma'am," to a Lady.

Elizabeth Turner [?—1846]



RULES OF BEHAVIOR

Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease To very, very little keys, And don't forget that two of these Are "I thank you" and "If you please."

Come when you're called, Do what you're bid, Close the door after you, Never be chid.

Seldom "can't," Seldom "don't;" Never "shan't," Never "won't."



LITTLE FRED

When little Fred Was called to bed, He always acted right; He kissed Mama, And then Papa, And wished them all good-night.

He made no noise, Like naughty boys, But gently up the stairs Directly went, When he was sent, And always said his prayers.



THE LOVABLE CHILD

Frisky as a lambkin, Busy as a bee— That's the kind of little girl People like to see.

Modest as a violet, As a rosebud sweet— That's the kind of little girl People like to meet.

Bright as is a diamond, Pure as any pearl— Everyone rejoices in Such a little girl.

Happy as a robin, Gentle as a dove— That's the kind of little girl Everyone will love.

Fly away and seek her, Little song of mine, For I choose that very girl As my Valentine.

Emilie Poulsson [1853-



GOOD AND BAD CHILDREN

Children, you are very little, And your bones are very brittle; If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately.

You must still be bright and quiet, And content with simple diet; And remain, through all bewild'ring, Innocent and honest children.