| The good dame looked from her cottage |
| At the close of the pleasant day, |
| And cheerily called to her little son, |
| Outside the door at play: |
| "Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, |
| While there is light to see. |
| To the hut of the blind old man who lives |
| Across the dike, for me; |
| And take these cakes I made for him— |
| They are hot and smoking yet; |
| You have time enough to go and come |
| Before the sun is set." |
| |
| Then the good-wife turned to her labor, |
| Humming a simple song, |
| And thought of her husband, working hard |
| At the sluices all day long; |
| And set the turf a-blazing, |
| And brought the coarse black bread, |
| That he might find a fire at night |
| And find the table spread. |
| |
| And Peter left the brother |
| With whom all day he had played, |
| And the sister who had watched their sports |
| In the willow's tender shade; |
| And told them they'd see him back before |
| They saw a star in sight, |
| Though he wouldn't be afraid to go |
| In the very darkest night! |
| For he was a brave, bright fellow, |
| With eye and conscience clear; |
| He could do whatever a boy might do, |
| And he had not learned to fear. |
| Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, |
| Nor brought a stork to harm, |
| Though never a law in Holland |
| Had stood to stay his arm! |
| |
| And now with his face all glowing, |
| And eyes as bright as the day |
| With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, |
| He trudged along the way; |
| And soon his joyous prattle |
| Made glad a lonesome place— |
| Alas! if only the blind old man, |
| Could have seen that happy face! |
| Yet he somehow caught the brightness |
| Which his voice and presence lent; |
| And he felt the sunshine come and go |
| As Peter came and went. |
| |
| And now, as the day was sinking, |
| And the winds began to rise, |
| The mother looked from her door again, |
| Shading her anxious eyes, |
| And saw the shadows deepen |
| And birds to their homes come back, |
| But never a sign of Peter |
| Along the level track. |
| But she said, "He will come at morning, |
| So I need not fret nor grieve— |
| Though it isn't like my boy at all |
| To stay without my leave." |
| |
| But where was the child delaying? |
| On the homeward way was he, |
| Across the dike while the sun was up |
| An hour above the sea. |
| He was stopping now to gather flowers, |
| Now listening to the sound, |
| As the angry waters dashed themselves |
| Against their narrow bound. |
| "Ah! well for us," said Peter, |
| "That the gates are good and strong, |
| And my father tends them carefully, |
| Or they would not hold you long! |
| You're a wicked sea," said Peter," |
| "I know why you fret and chafe; |
| You would like to spoil our lands and homes, |
| But our sluices keep you safe! |
| |
| But hark! Through the noise of waters |
| Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; |
| And the child's face pales with terror, |
| And his blossoms drop to the ground, |
| He is up the bank in a moment, |
| And, stealing through the sand, |
| He sees a stream not yet so large |
| As his slender, childish hand. |
| 'Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a boy, |
| Unused to fearful scenes; |
| But, young as he is, he has learned to know |
| The dreadful thing that means. |
| A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart |
| Grows faint that cry to hear, |
| And the bravest man in all the land |
| Turns white with mortal fear; |
| For he knows the smallest leak may grow |
| To a flood in a single night; |
| And he knows the strength of the cruel sea |
| When loosed in its angry might. |
| |
| And the boy! He has seen the danger |
| And shouting a wild alarm, |
| He forces back the weight of the sea |
| With the strength of his single arm! |
| He listens for the joyful sound |
| Of a footstep passing nigh; |
| And lays his ear to the ground, to catch |
| The answer to his cry. |
| And he hears the rough winds blowing, |
| And the waters rise and fall, |
| But never an answer comes to him |
| Save the echo of his call. |
| |
| He sees no hope, no succor, |
| His feeble voice is lost; |
| Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, |
| Though he perish at his post! |
| So, faintly calling and crying |
| Till the sun is under the sea; |
| Crying and moaning till the stars |
| Come out for company; |
| He thinks of his brother and sister, |
| Asleep in their safe warm bed; |
| He thinks of his father and mother, |
| Of himself as dying—and dead; |
| And of how, when the night is over, |
| They must come and find him at last; |
| But he never thinks he can leave the place |
| Where duty holds him fast. |
| |
| The good dame in the cottage |
| Is up and astir with the light, |
| For the thought of her little Peter |
| Has been with her all night. |
| And now she watches the pathway, |
| As yester eve she had done; |
| But what does she see so strange and black |
| Against the rising sun? |
| Her neighbors are bearing between them |
| Something straight to her door; |
| Her child is coming home, but not |
| As he ever came before! |
| |
| "He is dead!" she cries, "my darling!" |
| And the startled father hears. |
| And comes and looks the way she looks, |
| And fears the thing she fears; |
| Till a glad shout from the bearers |
| Thrills the stricken man and wife— |
| "Give thanks, for your son, has saved our land, |
| And God has saved his life!" |
| So, there in the morning sunshine |
| They knelt about the boy; |
| And every head was bared and bent |
| In tearful, reverent joy. |
|
| |
| 'Tis many a year since then, but still, |
| When the sea roars like a flood, |
| Their boys are taught what a boy can do |
| Who is brave and true and good; |
| For every man in that country |
| Takes his son by the hand, |
| And tells him of little Peter |
| Whose courage saved the land. |
| They have many a valiant hero |
| Remembered through the years; |
| But never one whose name so oft |
| Is named with loving tears; |
| And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, |
| And told to the child on the knee, |
| So long as the dikes of Holland |
| Divide the land from the sea! |
| |
| Phoebe Cary. |
| Merrily swinging on briar 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 that nest of ours, |
| Hidden among the summer flowers. |
| Chee, chee, chee. |
| |
| Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest, |
| 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 the 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 humdrum crone; |
| 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. |