Lately Published, price 5s., or with Plates on India, 7s. 6d. ILLUSTRATED WITH ETCHINGS BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK THE
EE AND THE
ASP
Lays of Ancient Babyland
to which are added
divers small Histories
not known to the Ancients.
Lays of Ancient Babyland
to which are added DIVERS SMALL HISTORIES not known to the ANCIENTS Dedicated, with much respect, but without permission, to the BABIES OF ENGLAND
LONDON BASIL M. PICKERING, 196, PICCADILLY 1857
TO AUGUSTA MARY, for whose amusement the following stories were from time to time written, THIS LITTLE VOLUME, in which they are now collected, is inscribed for a memorial of the happy days of her earliest childhood.
The True Hiſtory of MAISTER WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT. As it is ʃpoken or ʃung in the ʃtreets of the great city of London on the ninth day of November.
Whittington and his Cat.
GOD prosper long our good Lord Mayor,
And give him wealth and wit!
A little wisdom too mote well
His judgement-seat befit.
Come listen all ye prentice lads,
Sore set to drudge and fast,
How that good luck and industrie
Will make a man at last.
Whittington,
When our third Edward ruled the land,
A king of glorious fame,
An humble boy there lived also,
Dick Whittington by name.
an orphan
boy,
His father and his mother too
Were laid beneath the sod:
But he was left, and all alone
The path of misery trod.
destitute,
No woollen hose wore he, nor shoes
Upon his shivering feet;
A tatter’d cloak was all he had
To ward the rain and sleet.
Yet, though his breast was cold without,
His heart was warm within;
And he grumbled not, for well he wot
That envy is a sin.
but industrious,
And he would fight with all his might
To earn his daily bread:
Alas, to think how oft he went
All supperless to bed!
had heard
great reports
of London.
Now he had heard of London town,
And what the folks did there:
How aldermen did eat and drink,
And plenty had to spare.
And how the streets were full of shops,
And shops were full of food;
Of beef, and mutton, cheese and ham,
And every thing that’s good.
And how the men and women all
Were lords and ladies there;
And little boys were rigg’d as smart
As monkeys at a fair.
But what most wonderful did seem,
Of all he had heard told,
Was how the streets of that great town
Were paved with solid gold.
Resolved to
get there,
Heyday! thought he, if only I
Could get to that fine place!
’Twould not be long ere I would change
My miserable case.
he makes his
way on foot.
Now started off for London town
Before the break of day,
He fared beside a waggoner
Who drove his team that way.
All day they trudged until the sun
Had sunk behind the hill;
And when he rose again next morn
He saw them trudging still.
His joy to
behold that
land of
plenty.
At length a multitudinous smoke
Hid half th’ horizon round:
And such a sight of chimney-pots!
Dick gaped with joy and stound.
He thought how often he had lain
Beneath the cold damp air;
While here was house-room sure for all,
And fires i’faith to spare.
’Twere hard indeed if one should need
A chimney-corner here:
And from the drays that block’d the ways
Small lack could be of beer.
’Twas thus thought Dick, and so full quick
The waggoner he left;
And was not long, ere thro’ the throng
His nimble way he cleft.
His subsequent
disappointment;
Thro’ street, thro’ lane, full fast he ran;
But marvell’d to behold
The ways all strown with dirt and stone,
And not with solid gold.
And folks were not all lords he thought,
Nor ladies of degree:
For here were rags, and here were tags,
As in his own countrie.
when hungry
and cold,
Yet, where such plenty seem’d of all
A hungry lad mote need,
Tho’ rags were there he did not care:
He could not fail to speed.
he is neither
fed by the
victualler;
So at a shop he made a stop:
Before his well-spread board
The vict’ller stood, in jolly mood;
Dick thought he was a lord.
In cap ydight and waistcoat white
He beckon’d folks within;
While fumes arose to tell the nose
Of all that savoury bin.
Dick’s joy was great to see the meat;
So in he ran with haste:
Alas! roast beef is nought but grief
To such as may not taste.
The vict’ller’s eye right scornfully
Scann’d Dick from foot to head;
Who begg’d, for love of God above,
A bit of meat and bread.
“For one small groat it may be bought;
“I’faith it is not dear:
“But no sirloin withouten coin,
“Nor room for beggars here.”
Thereat a pamper’d cur rush’d forth
And bit Dick’s naked feet:
Who by the wrathful victualler
Was shoved into the street.
nor covered
by the
clothier;
Next shivering in his tatter’d dress
He view’d a clothier’s store;
But, as he was all penniless,
They drove him from the door.
Ah, tradesmen sleek! ah, Christians meek!
Why will ye swell with pride,
When ragged want or wretched woe
Stands shivering at your side?
nor even
heeded by
any body.
Alas, poor boy! what could he do?
The busy crowd swept past:
But all on self intent, or pelf,
No eye on him was cast.
He strove to beg: some heard him not,
And some would not believe:
Some heard him and believed him too,
But yet would not relieve.
Want most
grievous in
the midst of
plenty.
Oh! hunger is a galling thing,
Where nought is there to eat;
But three times more it galleth sore
To starve midst bread and meat.
At last he is
noticed by a
merchant-citizen,
Now just as Dick all spent and sick
Had laid him down to die,
A citizen of gentle mien
It chanced came walking by.
A merchant he of high degree,
With ruffles all of lace;
And Nature’s true nobility
Was blazon’d in his face.
who takes
him home,
and feeds
him.
He up did pick and home led Dick,
And gave him food to eat:
Then sent him to a clean warm bed,
Not back into the street.
“Thank God! for that I pass’d that way
“This night,“ the good man cried;
“For had I walk’d another way,
“Poor boy! he might have died.”
The morning come, Dick early rose,
And thank’d him from his heart;
And told him how no friend on earth
He had to take his part.
This merchant
becomes
his
friend.
“Then I’m your friend,” the kind man cried,
“And you shall live with me:
“And you shall tend my merchandize,
“And keep my granary.”
and employs
him in his
granary;
How danced for joy the lucky boy,
To see his alter’d plight!
He watch’d his granary by day,
And lock’d it fast by night.
Now stored within this granary,
Were corn and wine and oil,
And cheese and other precious things
Which rats and mice do spoil.
where there
lived a cat,
So there with Dick ydwelt a cat;
A tabby cat was she:
As sleek and soft, and eke as fat,
As any cat could be.
of social
temper,
And she about his legs would purr,
And on his knees would sit;
And every meal he took, for her
He saved a dainty bit.
and high
quality.
And not a mouse came near her house
But swallow’d was alive:
And not a rat but felt her pat:
No wonder she did thrive!
The birth
of a kitten:
Now scarce three moons had waned and fill’d,
Since Dick’s lone hours she cheer’d,
When at her side, as Heaven will’d,
A kitten there appear’d.
and Dick’s
twofold delight
thereafter.
Then Dick’s delight was doubled quite;
For one may well avouch,
Whatever fun there was in one
In two was twice as much.
This kitten’s
surpassing
beauty,
All black and red this kitten’s head
Look’d like a polish’d stone:
All red and black this kitten’s back
Like tortoiseshell it shone.
Full sure I am that well its dam
Might dote on such a kit:
The very rats that flee from cats
Would stand and stare at it.
and most
pleasant humour.
Its tail it whisk’d and leapt and frisk’d,
In weather fair and foul:
Or cold, or hot, it matter’d not
To such a merry soul.
But who could see such joyful glee
And not be joyous too?
So Dick forgot his sorry lot
And laugh’d as others do.
Dick acquires
his
first property.
Which when the merchant saw, and how
The kitten it was grown,
Of his free gift to Whittington
He gave it for his own.
PART II.
COME listen all, both great and small,
Of high and low degree;
That ye may know this true story
And live in charity.
As wealth by waste and idle taste
Soon falls to penury,
So small estate becometh great
By luck and industry.
Content then be in poverty,
In wealth of humble mind;
Like children of one family
To one another kind.
The venture
of the merchant
This merchant now in foreign parts
A venture fain would make;
And all the folk of his household
Were free to share the stake.
joined by
each of his
domestics.
One risk’d a shilling, one a groat,
And one a coin of gold;
And every one his stake anon
To the ship’s captain told.
Dick’s jesting
offer
Then half in jest, and half in shame,
Dick fetch’d his kitten down:
“I too,” he to the captain cried,
“Will venture all my own.”
to the surprise
of all
The servants laugh’d: Dick would have wept,
And therefore laugh’d the more;
But soon they stared for wonderment
Who laugh’d so loud before.
taken in
earnest by
the Captain.
For now the Captain, “Done,” he cried,
“A bargain by my fay:”
And call’d the ship’s-mate in a trice,
To stow the cat away.
The cat is
taken aboard.
He came so quick, no time had Dick
To countervail his joke:
So all aboard poor Puss was stored
Among the sea-going folk.
The ship
sails.
Now from her mooring, all ataut,
Put off at turn of tide,
Adown the river’s ebbing flood
The gallant bark did glide.
And, like some heavenward-soaring bird,
She faced the open seas;
And seem’d as sick of land to spread
Her wings before the breeze.
The cat at
sea.
Then, as she flew, Puss fetch’d a mew,
As if to say—poor me!
To think that I a land-bred cat
Should thus be press’d to sea!
But, ere a week was past and gone,
He changed this plaintive tone,
And, like a jolly sailor-boy,
Purr’d gaily up and down.
For lean and fat a ship-board cat
He found hath both to spare;
And legs by hosts for rubbing posts
Are always lounging there.
And then he oft would run aloft,
And just look out to sea;
Nor e’er a boy could scream ahoy
In shriller note than he.
The ship’s
course.
The fresh wind blew; the light bark flew,
And clear’d the channel’s mouth;
Through Biscay’s bay then cut her way,
And bore towards the South.
Bound for
Africa.
For she was bound for Afric ground,
Where wretched negroes dwell;
Who waste their days in idle ways,
As I am loth to tell.
Nathless the soil withouten toil
God’s gracious bounty yields;
And gum drops free from every tree
Along the sunny fields.
And we are told how dust of gold
Stains all the river sands:
And huge beasts shed their ivory tusks
About the desert lands.
The unthriftiness
of
the negroes.
Now what is not with trouble got
Is seldom kept with care:
For foresight and economy
To idlesse strangers are.
So these poor souls their goodly stores,
Not needed for the day,
For trifles and for tromperie
They barter all away.
The ship
sails past the
cape of St.
Vincent;
Three days, three nights our gallant ship
Her southward course had steer’d,
When o’er her larboard at the dawn
Saint Vincent’s cape appear’d.
Still southward yet three days three nights
Her steady prow she bore;
But when again Sol gilt the main
Was spied Marocco’s shore.
anchors off
the coast of
Marocco.
Now shouts of joy and busy noise
Salute the rising day:
The coast was made, the ship was stay’d,
And anchor’d in the bay.
As when a stranger hawk, that long
Hath soar’d in middle air,
Borne earthward on a tree alights,
And makes his station there;
The myriad tenants of the grove
Would fain his purpose know;
And flock around, yet hold aloof
For fear to meet a foe:
The wonderment
of
the negroes.
’Twas thus the negroes throng’d the beach,
To view a ship at sea:
While some drew down their light canoes;
What mote the strange bark be?
Or friend—or foe? They long’d to know,
Yet durst not venture near:
Till soon the boat was all afloat,
And off to lay their fear.
Their king
and queen
Afront were seen a king and queen,
Whom all the rest obey’d:
And all the good things of the land
Belong’d to them, ’twas said.
invited by
the Captain
Which when the captain heard, and how
They had an ample hoard,
Their companie requested he
To dine with him on board.
go on board.
Now, wafted o’er the azure lake,
The king and eke his queen,
Behold them seated on the deck:
The captain sat between.
Puss salutes
his Majesty
after European
fashion.
But ere the dinner it was served,
While yawn’d the king for meat,
Just to divert the royal mind,
Puss rubb’d against his feet.
Now you must know the royal toe
It ticklish was to touch:
But Puss rubb’d he so daintily,
The king he liked it much.
Then to his bride he spake aside,
And e’en was speaking yet,
When lo!—the platter came,—whereat
The rest he did forget.
The dinner.
Now both did eat their fill of meat,
As suiteth royalty:
No lack was there of the ship’s best fare,
And grog flow’d copiously.
Puss joins
the carousal,
And both did quaff, and both did laugh,
And both sang merrily:
Till Puss could stay no more away,
But came to join the glee.
his pleasantry.
His tail he whisk’d, and leapt and frisk’d,
As he was wont before:
Whereat the king and eke the queen
For very mirth did roar.
The royal
whim
Then up he gat, and sware an oath—
That, for so droll a thing,
In barter, of his choicest goods
A shipload he would bring.
indulged at
much cost.
Thereat the captain—“Done,” he cried
“A bargain by my fay!”
And sent his whole ship’s-company
To fetch the goods away.
A merry
night.
Now laugh’d the king and laugh’d the Queen,
And laugh’d the captain he:
A bargain struck at festive board
Doth please so mightily.
The goods were brought, the ship was fraught,
And stow’d away full tight.
The king and queen, they drank till e’en,
And slept on board that night.
The next
morning.
The captain rose at early dawn
And call’d to th’ king anon:
“This cat is thine, this cargo’s mine;
And now I must begone.”
The king awoke and waked the queen,
Who slept so heavily,
That full ten minutes pass’d away,
Before that she could see.
The king’s
maudlin
humour.
Then clasping Puss within her arms
She nursed him like a child.
The king his humour now was sad;
Nathless the monarch smiled.
The king
and queen
depart with
puss.
Then down the vessel’s side he stepp’d,
And down the queen stepp’d she.
And Puss was handed down perforce
To join their company.
Alongside lay the king’s canoe,
Well mann’d with negroes ten;
Who swift row’d off the royal pair,
With Puss all snug between.
The ship
weighs
anchor,
Then sung the Captain—“all hand’s up,
The anchor haul amain:
Unfurl the sails, and point the prow
For British lands again.”
and sails
homeward.
Tis done: from out the tranquil bay
Our goodly vessel glides;
And, homeward bound, on Ocean’s back
Right gallantly she rides.
PART III.
Dick’s whole
estate.
NOW when the merchant gave to Dick
That kitten for his own,
No thing he had alive or dead
On earth save it alone.
His regret at
its loss;
And so enamour’d had he grown
Of this his property,
That sooth his heart did sorely smart
When Puss was sent to sea.
His melancholy
vein,
Then all was lonely as before;
Again he rued his plight:
He moped in solitude all day,
And lay awake all night.
and wayward
fancy.
So dismal and so desolate
The granary now it seem’d,
He long’d in the green fields to be,
And where the sunshine gleam’d.
He deserts
his trust,
Alas! how weak our nature is
Its cravings to resist:
For Dick betray’d his master’s trust
To follow his own list.
and wanders
into the
fields.
He stroll’d abroad into the fields,
He knew not where nor why;
Regardless of his duty quite
About the granary.
The Lord
Mayor’s day.
Now as it chanced the new Lord Mayor
Of London, that same day,
To meet the king at Westminster
In state had ta’en his way.
Bow bells
With such a charge the city-barge
Did proudly flaunt along:
And the bells of Bow were nothing slow
To greet him with—ding, dong.
heard by
Dick.
While truant Dick all sad and sick
Was wandering in despair,
Hark! hark! the music of Bow-bells
Came wafted on the air.
What they
seemed to
say.
They seem’d to say—Turn Whit-ting-ton:
Again turn Whit-ting-ton:
And when he listen’d still, they said—
Lord May-or of Lon-don.
Again he heard the self-same words
Repeated by the chimes;
Yet trusted not, till he had heard
The same an hundred times.
His repentance
and
return.
“It must be so: and I will go
Back to my granary.
Oh shame! to be so false while he
Was true and kind to me.”
He turn’d, and reach’d the granary
Before the fall of day:
And not a living soul e’er knew
That he had run away.
his good
resolves,
This foolish prank he sorely rued;
But now that it was o’er,
And he all right again, he vow’d
He ne’er would do so more.
rewarded by
peace of
mind.
And so that night in peace he slept,
And so to joy he rose:
But while he slept, he thought he trod
Upon the Lord Mayor’s toes.
His prophetic
dream.
Patience—patience! my little boy;
Take heed to save your skin:
The Lord Mayor is a portly man,
And thou but small and thin.
Beware of cage, beware of cat
That tails hath three times three:
For he may strip, and he may whip,
And he may ’mprison thee.
All in his sleep this sage advice
Seem’d whisper’d to his ear:
Nathless right on the Lord Mayor’s toe
He stood withouten fear.
A visiter
Again the day had pass’d away,
And night was creeping o’er,
When such a knock as mote him shock
Was thunder’d at his door.
brings tidings
of his
luck.
“Hallo! hallo! why batter so?”
In trembling voice he sung:
Whereat wide-open flew the door,
And in the Captain sprung.
“Good luck, good luck! my jolly buck!
Why whimper there and whine?
Cheer up now Maister Whittington,
For—all the cargo’s thine.”
His incredulity.
But Dick was so much used to woe,
He dared not trust on weal:
Nor had he zest to point a jest
To rouse the sailor’s peal.
The congratulations
of the household.
Till soon the household made aware
Came rattling at the door,
And greeted Maister Whittington,
Who was poor Dick before.
They led him forth a man of worth,
And humbly call’d him Sire;
And placed him in a huge arm-chair
Before the merchant’s fire.
The good man heard the rumour’d word
And eke his daughter fair;
And both ran straight to where he sate
All in this huge arm-chair.
’Twas then the merchant laugh’d aloud,
And then the maiden smiled:
And then the servants bow’d to him
They had before reviled.
The virtue
of riches.
For Poverty may blameless be,
Yet is an unblest thing;
And wealth, for all that good men preach,
Doth sure obeisance bring.
This truth found Dick, who grew full quick
Into an honour’d man;
Yet was he loth to let his luck
Abide where it began.
His active
industry,
So join’d he jolly venturers
In every good emprise;
It was no niggard share he staked
In all their argosies.
rewarded.
All lucky he came off at sea;
But luckier far on land,
Whenas the merchant’s daughter fair
Gave him her heart and hand.
His honours.
Next he became an Alderman,
And Lord Mayor before long:
And then—oh! how the bells of Bow
Did greet him with ding-dong.
E’en on that day they seem’d to say
Lord May-or of Lon-don:
But when he listen’d still they said
Sir Rich-ard Whit-ting-ton.
His charity.
Then thought he on the luckless lad
That swept the granary floor;
Nor ever in the pride of wealth
Did he forget the poor.
And so God save our good Lord Mayor,
And give him wealth and wit:
But never let a prentice-lad
Dick Whittington forget.
THE THREE WISHES.
A Lay ʃung in ʃmall Families during the Moon which follows next to that which is known as the Honey-moon.
The Three Wishes.
IN wedlock once (’twas years agone)
Were join’d a simple pair;
The man in sooth was wondrous poor,
The woman wondrous fair.
Love is not
covetous,
What wonder then that they should love,
As none e’er loved before;
And tho’ few worldly goods they had,
They coveted no more.
but, whether
woman’s,
or
man’s,
For woman is a generous thing,
And loves for love alone;
And man he loves for beauty’s sake,
And dotes on flesh and bone.
For woman is a generous thing,
And loves for love alone;
And man he loves for beauty’s sake,
And dotes on flesh and bone.
consists not
with starvation;
But flesh and bone they must be fed,
As all the world doth know;
Withouten food the loveliest flesh
Most hideous soon doth grow.
Nor bone will thrive on love alone,
If bread and meat it lacks;
Withouten food, the stronger love,
The weaker bone doth wax.
and is perill’d
by idleness,
Now three weeks wedded had they been,
And though he was so poor,
The man, who had no goods within,
Scarce passed without the door.
The woman loved him still so much,
She wish’d for nought instead;
Yet did she pine, each night to go
All supperless to bed.
One night as o’er the hearth they sat,
The embers glowing bright,
My dear, quoth he, most fair by day
Thou’rt fairer still by night!
which induces
want,
I too, quoth she, do love thee now
As ne’er I loved before;
Yet, were I not so hungry, I
Methinks should love thee more.
discontent,
Alas, said he, that poverty
Should such fond hearts betide!
I fain would work,—but love thee so,
I cannot leave thy side:
and unavailing
wishes:
I wish that we were very rich!
She answer’d,—I am thine:
And, though I never cared for wealth,
Thy wishes shall be mine.
Scarce had they spoke when on the hearth
Appear’d a little fay:
So beautiful she was, the room
It shone as bright as day.
of which
even the full
indulgence
Then waving thrice her lily hand,
In silver tones she spake;—
Thrice may ye wish what wish ye please,
And thrice your wish shall take.
I am your guardian fay, she said,
And joy to see your love:
What would ye more to make you blest
As spirits are above?
The beauteous fay then vanishing,
The man he kiss’d his wife;
And swore he never was before
So happy in his life.
Now shall I be a lord, said he,
A bishop, or a king?
We’ll think it o’er to night, nor wish
In haste for any thing.
would end
in folly.
Be it, said she; to-morrow then
We’ll wish one wish, my dear:
In the meantime, I only wish
We had some pudding here.
Ah! luckless wish! upon the word,
A pudding straightway came:
At which the man wax’d high with rage,
The woman low with shame.
Then folly
begets anger;
And as she hid her blushing eyes,
And crouch’d upon a stool;
The man he rose and stamp’d his foot,
And cursed her for a fool.
He stamp’d his foot, and clench’d his fist,
And scarce refrain’d from blows:
A pudding! zounds, cried he, I wish
You had it at your nose!
Up rose the pudding as he spake,
And, like an air-balloon,
Was borne aloft in empty space,
But oh! it settled soon:
and anger
strife,
Too soon it settled on the nose
Of his unhappy wife:
Alas! how soon an angry word
Turns harmony to strife!
For now the woman sobb’d aloud
To feel the pudding there;
And in her turn was angry too,
And call’d the man a bear.
followed by
remorse and
shame.
But when their anger had burnt out,
Its ash remain’d behind;
Remorse and shame that they had been
So foolish and so blind.
The man brake silence first, and said,—
Two wishes now are gone,
And nothing gain’d; but one remains,
And much may still be done.—
Oh were it so! but I have gain’d
What much I wish to lose—
The woman blurted, as she saw
The pudding at her nose.
Then off the pudding flew amain,
And roll’d into the dish:
For she in sooth unwittingly
Had wish’d the other wish.
Now when the man saw what was done,
His choler quick return’d;
But when he look’d into her face,
With love again he burn’d.
But love
consists with
a lowly
estate,
For now she smiled as she was wont,
And seem’d so full of charms,
That all unmindful of the past
He rush’d into her arms.
Oh! how I joy thou’rt not, she said,
Nor bishop, king, nor lord!
I love thee better as thou art,
I do, upon my word!
And I, said he, do dote on thee:
For now the pudding’s gone,
There’s not a face in any place
So pretty as thine own!
so there be
contentment,
But as we have the pudding here,
’Tis all we want,—said she,
Suppose we just sit down awhile
And eat it merrily.
and industry.
With all my heart, my love, said he,
For I am hungry too:
From this time forth, I’ll strive to earn
Enough for me and you.
Moral.
The fay then reappear’d, and spake
The moral of my song:—
“Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.”
Love is a heavenly prize in sooth,
But earthborn flesh and bone,
If they would love, must live as well,
And cannot love alone.
Then strive to earn the bread of life,
And guard your body’s health;
But mark—enough is all you want,
And competence is wealth.
And to that happy soul, who love
With competency blends,
Contentment is a crown of joy!—
And here the moral ends.
A brief Account of the ſad Accident which befel
LITTLE RED-RIDING-HOOD
ſhowing plainly what brought about the ſame. A Lay of the Nurʃery, as chanted to ʃimple Muʃic by the lady-governeʃʃes of the olden time.
Little Red-riding-hood.
A LITTLE girl once lived in a cottage near a tree,
A pretty little girl she was, and good as she could be.
Her father often kiss’d her; and her mother loved her so,
That if the king had pledged his crown for her, she had said—no.
Her grandmother, who lived in a village through a wood,
Had made her little granddaughter a nice red riding-hood,
This riding-hood she used to wear whenever she walk’d out;
It was so smart, the boys and girls would follow her about.
And all the neighbours loved her, and to see her often came;
And little Dame Red-riding-hood they call’d her for her name.
One beautiful fine morning when her mother had been churning,
This little girl upon the hearth some nice sweet cakes was turning:
And whisper’d softly to herself, how well our oven bakes!
Oh, how I wish that grandmamma could taste these nice sweet cakes!
Her mother who was close behind, and heard her little mutter,
Then you shall take her some, she said, with some of my fresh butter.
But loiter not upon the road, nor from the footpath stray,
For many wicked folks there be might harm thee by the way.
As soon as she had heard these words, oh! how she jump’d for joy!
For she old granny loved as much as most love a new toy.
She put on her red-riding-hood, and started off in haste;
All eager for her grandmother her nice sweet cakes to taste.
And thus as on she trotted with her basket on her arm,
She little thought that any one would wish to do her harm.
Now when she came into the wood, through which the footpath lay,
The birds were singing all around, the flowers were blooming gay.
Such yellow buttercups she saw, such violets white and blue,
Such primroses, such sweet-briars, and honey-suckles too;
That, oh! she thought within herself, I wish Mamma were here:
I’m sure she’d let me stop awhile; there can be nought to fear:
I must just pick these pretty flowers which smell so fresh and sweet:
’Twill be so nice to take her home a nose-gay for a treat.
She told me not to loiter here, nor from the footpath stray;
And so I wont stop very long, nor wander far away.
And so she stopp’d, nor thought of harm, because she knew not what:
Enough it should have been to know—Mamma had told her not.
And from the path she stray’d away, and pick’d a thousand flowers;
And all the birds did welcome her within their leafy bowers.
But, as it so fell out, a wolf was basking in the grass,
And soon with his sharp hazel eyes espied the little lass.
And then he trotted up to her, and right before her stood:
How do you do, my dear? said he; what brings you to my wood?
Now though his coat was very rough, his words were soft and kind;
And not a single thought of fear e’er cross’d her simple mind.
And so she freely said,—I go to see my Granny, Sir,
Who lives in yonder village in the cottage near the fir.
I am her little pet, you know, and take her nice sweet cakes—
Good bye; said he, and brush’d away thro’ bushes and thro’ brakes.
And not five minutes had pass’d by since he had quitted her,
Before he reach’d the village and the cottage near the fir.
He rubb’d and scratch’d against the door; but she was ill in bed;
And when he tried to make a knock, she feebly raised her head;
And cried, who knocks at Martha’s door, and poor old Martha wakes?
It is your little pet, said he, who brings you nice sweet cakes.
God help you, dearest child, she cried, so pull the string you know;
And up the latch will go, my love, and you may enter so.
Then up he jump’d to reach the string, and open flew the door;
And in he walk’d, and fasten’d it, just as it was before.
Alas! alas!—as you or I on bread and milk would sup,
The greedy wolf this poor old dame he gobbled fairly up.
But now, ashamed of what he’d done, he jump’d into her bed;
And put her gown upon his back, her cap upon his head.
But ere he long had lain, there came the very little pet,
Who long’d to tell her Granny of the kind wolf she had met.
And gently tapping at the door, she whisper’d soft and still;
And the false wolf spake huskily, as he were very ill:
Who knocks at Martha’s door, he cried, and poor old Martha wakes?
It is her little pet, said she, who brings her nice sweet cakes.
God help you, dearest, cried the wolf, so pull the string you know;
And up the latch will go, my love, and you may enter so.
Then up she jump’d to reach the string, and open flew the door;
And in she stepp’d, and fasten’d it, just as it was before.
Now take off your red riding-hood, and come to me in bed:
He spake with an affected voice, and cover’d up his head.
The little damsel, as he spoke, just saw his hairy nose:
Yet now she did as she was bid, and so pull’d off her clothes.
Oh! Granny, what rough arms you’ve got! I’m not afraid, cried she:
Rough arms? my dearest child, he said; better for hugging thee.
Sharp eyes? my dearest child, he said; better for seeing thee.
Oh! Granny, what long ears you’ve got! I’m quite afraid, cried she:
Long ears? my dearest child, he said; better for hearing thee.
Oh! Granny, what wide lips you’ve got! I think you’ll swallow me:
Wide lips? my dearest child, he said; better for kissing thee.
Thus having said, he kisses gave her one—two—three—and four;
And then—he would have eat her up, but he could eat no more.
So little people all take heed, and do as you are bid;
Lest you some day should meet a wolf, as this poor maiden did.
A Paſſage in the Life of
JACK THE GIANT-KILLER.
A Lay formerly ʃung about the South-weʃtern coaʃt of England and the Principality of Wales, but known in more remote parts ʃince the ʃpread of Learning.
