THE MARRIAGE OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN.

It was a merry time, When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she dressed, And so sweetly as she sung. Robin Redbreast lost his heart, He was a gallant bird; He doffed his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said: "My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie And drink nice currant wine. "I'll dress you like a goldfinch, Or like a peacock gay; So, if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day." Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob— I take your offer kind. "Cherry pie is very good, So is currant wine; But I'll wear my russet gown And never dress too fine." Robin rose up early, At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house To sing a roundelay. He met the Cock and Hen, And bade the Cock declare This was his wedding day With Jenny Wren the fair. The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbours know This was Robin's wedding day, And they might see the show. Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be the clerk At Cock Robin's wedding. He sang of Robin's love For little Jenny Wren; And when he came unto the end, Then he began again. At first came Parson Rook, With his spectacles and band; And one of Mother Hubbard's books He held within his hand. The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the bride; The Linnet, being bridesmaid, Walked by Jenny's side; And as she was a-walking, Said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock Robin Is a very pretty bird." The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet songs sweetly echo Through every grove and dale; The Sparrow and the Tomtit, And many more were there; All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren the fair. The Bullfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say: "Pray mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch dressed so gay; "That though her gay apparel Becomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and look Must bear away the bell." Then came the bride and bridegroom; Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks were As red as Robin's breast. But Robin cheered her up; "My pretty Jen," says he, "We're going to be married. And happy we shall be." "Oh," then says Parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay: "Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!" "And you will have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life!" "And you will have him Jenny, Your husband now to be?" "Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily." Then on her finger fair Cock Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says Parson Rook, While the lark aloud did sing: "Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride! And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide!" The birds were asked to dine; Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had Cock Robin known. They had a cherry pie, Besides some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine. Now they all sat or stood, To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think. They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair; Cock Robin the bridegroom, And Jenny the fair. The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place For a mile around to ring. The concert it was fine, And every birdie tried Who best should sing for Robin And Jenny Wren the bride. When in came the Cuckoo, And made a great rout; He caught hold of Jenny, And pulled her about. Cock Robin was angry, And so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry His bow and his arrow. His aim then he took, But he took it not right, His skill was not good, Or he shot in a fright; For the Cuckoo he missed, But Cock Robin he killed! And all the birds mourned That his blood was so spilled.

Yet another song of the Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a youthful vocalist. I don't know that it ever had a title, but we will call it

THE NORTH WIND.

The North wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the Robin do then, poor thing? He will sit in the barn, And keep himself warm, With his little head under his wing, poor thing!

It is not claimed for these pieces that they belong to any high order of verse—though really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very first. In point of popularity alone, they are not surpassed by "Paradise Lost," nor by the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then, they have so thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the affections of the wee folks, that, with old and young alike—for the young so soon grow into the old, alas!—there are no compositions in the world better secured for the honour and glory of immortal fame. They have not been very often printed, I have said—not often in recent years, at least—and the reason, I suppose, is because it was not deemed necessary to set out in print what everybody knows so well by heart. It must be refreshing for the eye, however, to scan what is so familiar to the ear, and I make no apology—yea, I hope to be thanked for their appearance in this little book for bairns and big folk. Let the next be

LITTLE BO-PEEP.

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And doesn't know where to find them; Let them alone, and they'll come home, Bringing their tails behind them. Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep. And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For still they all were 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 happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray Under a meadow hard by, That 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 went stump-o; And tried as she could, as a shepherdess should, To tack again each to its rump-o.

The ballad lacks sadly in particulars, to be sure. How the tails of the entire flock disappeared in one fell swoop—whether by malice aforethought, at the instance of a lurking enemy, or in a miraculous accident, whilst the young shepherdess slept at her charge—has never been told, though thousands of wondering pows, multiplied by ten, have wanted to know. Perhaps it is better not explained. Mystery is so often just another word for charm.

We will now have the curious tale of "The House that Jack Built." In no sense a curious house, perhaps, but famous because of the fortuitous events which issued in regular sequence from the simple fact of the builder having stored a quantity of malt within its walls. It is told best with the accompaniment of pictorial illustrations, but here these are not available.