And point with taper spire to Heaven.
Samuel Rogers.
Wishing
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose,
A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring!
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the Elm-tree for our King!
Nay — stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree,
A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing!
O — no! I wish I were a Robin,
A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till Winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing!
Well — tell! Where should I fly to,
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover,
For Mother’s kiss, — sweeter this
Than any other thing!
William Allingham.
Bunches of Grapes
“Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy;
“Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine;
“A junket of cream and a cranberry tart
For me,” says Jane.
“Love-in-a-mist,” says Timothy;
“Primroses pale,” says Elaine;
“A nosegay of pinks and mignonette
For me,” says Jane.
“Chariots of gold,” says Timothy;
“Silvery wings,” says Elaine;
“A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay
For me,” says Jane.
Walter Ramal.
Contentment
Once on a time an old red hen
Went strutting round with pompous clucks,
For she had little babies ten,
A part of which were tiny ducks.
“’Tis very rare that hens,” said she,
“Have baby ducks as well as chicks —
But I possess, as you can see,
Of chickens four and ducklings six!”
A season later, this old hen
Appeared, still cackling of her luck,
For, though she boasted babies ten,
Not one among them was a duck!
“’Tis well,” she murmured, brooding o’er
The little chicks of fleecy down,
“My babies now will stay ashore,
And, consequently, cannot drown!”
The following spring the old red hen
Clucked just as proudly as of yore —
But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,
Instead of chickens as before!
“’Tis better,” said the old red hen,
As she surveyed her waddling brood;
“A little water now and then
Will surely do my darlings good!”
But oh! alas, how very sad!
When gentle spring rolled round again,
The eggs eventuated bad,
And childless was the old red hen!
Yet patiently she bore her woe,
And still she wore a cheerful air,
And said: “’Tis best these things are so,
For babies are a dreadful care!”
I half suspect that many men,
And many, many women too,
Could learn a lesson from the hen
With plumage of vermilion hue.
She ne’er presumed to take offence
At any fate that might befall,
But meekly bowed to Providence —
She was contented — that was all!
Eugene Field.
TOYS AND PLAY, IN-DOORS AND OUT
The Land of Story-Books
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.
R. L. Stevenson.
Sand Castles
Build me a castle of sand
Down by the sea.
Here on the edge of the strand
Build it for me.
How shall a foeman invade,
Where may he land,
While we can raise with our spade
Castles of sand?
Turrets upleap and aspire,
Battlements rise
Sweeping the sea with their fire,
Storming the skies.
Pile that a monarch might own,
Mightily plann’d!
I can’t sit here on a throne,
This is too grand.
Build me a cottage of sand
Up on the hill;
Snug in a cleft it must stand
Sunny and still.
Plant it with ragwort and ling,
Bramble and bine:
Castles I’ll leave to the King,
This shall be mine.
Storm-clouds drive over the land,
High flies the spray;
Gone are our houses of sand,
Vanished away!
Look at the damage you’ve done,
Sea-wave and rain!
— “Nay, we but give you your fun
Over again.”
W. Graham Robertson.
Ring o’ Roses
Hush a while, my darling, for the long day closes,
Nodding into slumber on the blue hill’s crest.
See the little clouds play Ring a ring o’ roses,
Planting Fairy gardens in the red-rose West.
Greet him for us, cloudlets, say we’re not forgetting
Golden gifts of sunshine, merry hours of play.
Ring a ring o’ roses round the sweet sun’s setting,
Spread a bed of roses for the dear dead day.
Hush-a-bye, my little one, the dear day dozes,
Doffed his crown of kingship and his fair flag furled,
While the earth and sky play Ring a ring o’ roses,
Ring a ring o’ roses round the rose-red world.
W. Graham Robertson.
DREAM-LAND
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
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 star
s were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea —
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish —
Never afeared 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 folks 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.
The Drummer-Boy and the Sheperdess
Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum?
And why do you weep, sitting here on your thumb?
The soldiers are out, and the fifes we can hear;
But where is the drum of the young grenadier?
“My dear little drum it was stolen away
Whilst I was asleep on a sunshiny day;
It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee,
And sheep and a shepherdess under a tree.”
Shepherdess, shepherdess, where is your crook?
And why is your little lamb over the brook?
It bleats for its dam, and dog Tray is not by,
So why do you stand with a tear in your eye?
“My dear little crook it was stolen away
Whilst I dreamt a dream on a morning in May;
It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee,
And a drum and a drummer-boy under a tree.”
W. B. Rands.
The Land of Dreams
“Awake, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother’s only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
O wake! thy father doth thee keep.
O what land is the land of dreams?
What are its mountains and what are its streams?”
“O father! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.”
“Dear child! I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the land of dreams,
But, though calm and warm the waters wide
I could not get to the other side.”
“Father, O father! what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The land of dreams is better far,
Above the light of the morning star.”
William Blake.
Sweet and Low
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, Lord Tennyson.
Cradle Song
O hush thee, my baby, 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 all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.
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 hush thee, my baby, the time will soon 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.
Sir Walter Scott.
Mother and I
O Mother-My-Love, if you’ll give me your hand,
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land —
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder.
We’ll walk in a sweet-posy garden out there,
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.
There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you;
There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you.
For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream,
And sing you asleep when you’re weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.
And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head
In the bosom that’s sooth’d me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we’ll wander —
Away through the mist to the beautiful land —
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder!
Eugene Field.
FAIRY-LAND
The Fairies
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig one up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together,
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
William Allingham.
Shakespeare’s Fairies
Some of them, —
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew....
They Dance and Play, —
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have, and kiss’d, —
The wild waves whist, —
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow, wow,
The watch-dogs bark:
Bow, wow,
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
Ariel Sings, —
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
A Busy One
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
Complete Works of Kenneth Grahame Page 21