Page 27—Girl Land

We are Seven
I met a little cottage girl;
She was eight years old, she said;
Her head was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering, looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the churchyard lie—
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid how this may be?"
Then did the little maid reply,
Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive!
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied;
"Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
I sit and sing to them.
"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.
"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you then? said I,
"If they two are in heaven!"
The little maiden did reply
"O master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead;
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And say, "Nay, we are seven."

The Poor, but Kind Girl
Young Lucy Payne lives on the Village Green;
Mary, you know the cottage, I am sure,
Under the hawthorn! 'Tis so neat and clean,
Though Widow Payne, alas! is blind and poor.
She plies her needles, and she plies them well,
And Lucy never spends an idle hour;
On market days their mits and socks they sell,
And thus their balls of worsted turn to flour.
I pass'd one morning by their cottage door;
Lucy was talking to a little child,
A ragged thing that lives upon the moor;
It's parents leave it to run rude and wild.
Hanger had tamed the little wilding thing,
It's cheeks were hollow, but it's air was light;
Young Lucy did not know I saw her bring
That porringer she kept so clean and bright.
It was her breakfast—all the darling had;
But oh! she gave it with a heart so glad.

Grace Darling
"Over the wave, the stormy wave,
Hasten, dear father, with me,
The crew to save from a wat'ry grave,
Deep in the merciless sea.
Hear ye the shriek, the piercing shriek,
Hear ye the cry of despair?
With courage quick the wreck we'll seek;
Danger united we'll dare.
"Out with the boat, the gallant boat;
Not a moment to be lost;
See! she's afloat, proudly afloat,
And high on the waves we're tossed;
Mother, Adieu, a short adieu;
Your prayers will rise to heaven;
Father to you—your child and you—
Power to save is given.
"I have no fear, no maiden fear;
My heart is firm to the deed,
I shed no tear, no coward tear;
I've strength in time of need.
Hear ye the crash, the horrid crash?
Their mast over the side is gone;
Yet on we dash, 'mid lightning flash,
Safe through the pelting storm.
"The wreck we near, the wreck we near,
Our bonny boat seems to fly,
List to the cheer, their welcome cheer,
They know that succour is nigh."
And on that night, that dreadful night,
The father and daughter brave,
With strengthened might they both unite,
And many dear lives they save.
Hail to the maid, the fearless maid,
The maid of matchless worth;
She'll e'er abide the cherished pride
Of the land that gave her birth.
The send her gold, her name high uphold,
Honour and praise to impart;
But, with true regard, the loved reward
Is the joy of her own brave heart.

The Tidy Girl
Who is it each day in the week may be seen,
With her hair short and smooth, and her hands and face clean;
In a stout cotton gown, of dark and light blue,
Though old, so well mended, you'd take it for new;
Her handkerchief tidily pinned o'er her neck.
With a neat little cap, and an apron of check;
Her shoes and her stockings all sound and all clean?
She's never fine outside and dirty within.
Go visit her cottage, though humble and poor.
'Tis so neat and so clean you might eat off the floor;
No rubbish, no cobwebs, no dirt can be found,
Though you hunt every corner, and search all around.
Who sweeps it so nicely, who makes all the bread,
Who tends her sick mother, and works by her bed?
'Tis the neat, tidy girl—she needs no other name;
Abroad or at home, she is always the same.

I Will be Good To-Day
"I will be good, dear mother,"
I heard a sweet child say;
"I will be good; now watch me—
I will be good all day."
Oh, many, many, bitter tears
'Twould save us, did we say,
Like that dear child, with earnest heart,
"I will be good to-day."

My Own Dear Little Sister
I have a little sister,
She's only three years old;
I do most dearly love her,
She's worth her weight in gold.
We often play together
And I begin to find,
To make my sister happy,
I must be very kind.

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