Poems Every Child Should Know / The What-Every-Child-Should-Know-Library

by Unknown

You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms lock’d behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mus’d “My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,”— Out ’twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reach’d the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse’s mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect— (So tight he kept his lips compress’d, Scarce any blood came through) You look’d twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. “Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace We’ve got you Ratisbon! The Marshal’s in the market-place, And you’ll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart’s desire, Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief’s eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle’s eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; “You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

Robert Browning.

Robert of Lincoln.

“Robert of Lincoln,” by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), is one of the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal School (Colonel Parker’s school), year after year, and because my own pupils invariably like to commit it to memory. With the child of six to the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight.

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice, new coat is mine; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature, you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man, Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care, Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln’s a hum-drum drone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee.

William Cullen Bryant.

Old Grimes.

“Old Grimes” is an heirloom, an antique gem. We learn it as a matter of course for its sparkle and glow.

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, We ne’er shall see him more; He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray, He wore it in a queue. He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbours he did not abuse, Was sociable and gay; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune’s chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

Albert Gorton Greene.