The Cambridge Book
of
Poetry for Children

PART I

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS

C. F. CLAY, Manager

London: FETTER LANE, E.C.
Edinburgh: 100 PRINCES STREET

Bombay, Calcutta and Madras: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd.

Toronto: J. M. DENT AND SONS, Ltd.

Tokyo: THE MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA

Copyrighted in the United States of America by
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS,
2, 4 and 6, West 45th Street, New York City

All rights reserved

The Cambridge Book
of
Poetry for Children

Edited by
KENNETH GRAHAME

Author of The Golden Age, Dream Days, The Wind in the Willows, etc.

PART I

Cambridge:
at the University Press
1916

NOTE

The Editor is indebted to the following authors and publishers for leave to reprint copyright poems: Mr W. Graham Robertson and Mr Norman Gale; Messrs Longmans Green & Co. for a poem by Walter Ramal and for a poem from Stevenson’s Child’s Garden of Verse, Messrs Chatto & Windus for an extract from Swinburne’s Songs Before Sunrise and for a poem from Walter Thornbury’s Ballads and Songs, Messrs G. Routledge & Sons for a poem by Joaquin Miller, Mr Elliot Stock for an extract from a play by H. N. Maugham; and Mr John Lane for the Rands, Eugene Field, and Graham Robertson poems, and for two extracts from John Davidson’s Fleet Street Eclogues.

PREFACE

IN compiling a selection of Poetry for Children, a conscientious Editor is bound to find himself confronted with limitations so numerous as to be almost disheartening. For he has to remember that his task is, not to provide simple examples of the whole range of English poetry, but to set up a wicket-gate giving attractive admission to that wide domain, with its woodland glades, its pasture and arable, its walled and scented gardens here and there, and so to its sunlit, and sometimes misty, mountain-tops—all to be more fully explored later by those who are tempted on by the first glimpse. And always he must be proclaiming to the small tourists that there is joy, light and fresh air in that delectable country.

Briefly, I think that blank verse generally, and the drama as a whole, may very well be left for readers of a riper age. Indeed, I believe that those who can ignore the plays of Shakespeare and his fellow-Elizabethans till they are sixteen will be no losers in the long run. The bulk, too, of seventeenth and eighteenth century poetry, bending under its burden of classical form and crowded classical allusion, requires a completed education and a wide range of reading for its proper appreciation.

Much else also is barred. There are the questions of subject, of archaic language and thought, and of occasional expression, which will occur to everyone. Then there is dialect, and here one has to remember that these poems are intended for use at the very time that a child is painfully acquiring a normal—often quite arbitrary—orthography. Is it fair to that child to hammer into him—perhaps literally—that porridge is spelt porridge, and next minute to present it to him, in an official ‘Reader,’ under the guise of parritch? I think not; and I have accordingly kept as far as possible to the normal, though at some loss of material.

In the output of those writers who have deliberately written for children, it is surprising how largely the subject of death is found to bulk. Dead fathers and mothers, dead brothers and sisters, dead uncles and aunts, dead puppies and kittens, dead birds, dead flowers, dead dolls—a compiler of Obituary Verse for the delight of children could make a fine fat volume with little difficulty. I have turned off this mournful tap of tears as far as possible, preferring that children should read of the joy of life, rather than revel in sentimental thrills of imagined bereavement.

There exists, moreover, any quantity of verse for children, which is merely verse and nothing more. It lacks the vital spark of heavenly flame, and is useless to a selector of Poetry. And then there is the whole corpus of verse—most of it of the present day—which is written about children, and this has even more carefully to be avoided. When the time comes that we send our parents to school, it will prove very useful to the compilers of their primers.

All these restrictions have necessarily led to two results. First, that this collection is chiefly lyrical—and that, after all, is no bad thing. Lyric verse may not be representative of the whole range of English poetry, but as an introduction to it, as a Wicket-gate, there is no better portal. The second result is, that it is but a small sheaf that these gleanings amount to; but for those children who frankly do not care for poetry it will be more than enough; and for those who love it and delight in it, no ‘selection’ could ever be sufficiently satisfying.

KENNETH GRAHAME.

October 1915.

CONTENTS

For the Very Smallest Ones

RHYMES AND JINGLES

We begin with some jingles and old rhymes; for rhymes and jingles must not be despised. They have rhyme, rhythm, melody, and joy; and it is well for beginners to know that these are all elements of poetry, so that they will turn to it with pleasant expectation.

Merry are the Bells

Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring,

Merry was myself, and merry could I sing;

With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free,

And a merry sing-song, happy let us be!

Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose;

Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose;

Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free;

With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!

Merry have we met, and merry have we been;

Merry let us part, and merry meet again;

With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free,

With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!

Safe in Bed

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,

Bless the bed that I lie on!

Four corners to my bed,

Five angels there lie spread;

Two at my head,

Two at my feet,

One at my heart, my soul to keep.

Jenny Wren

Jenny Wren fell sick;

Upon a merry time,

In came Robin Redbreast,

And brought her sops of wine.

Eat well of the sop, Jenny,

Drink well of the wine;

Thank you Robin kindly,

You shall be mine.

Jenny she got well,

And stood upon her feet,

And told Robin plainly

She loved him not a bit.

Robin, being angry,

Hopp’d on a twig,

Saying, Out upon you,

Fye upon you,

Bold-faced jig!

Curly Locks

Curly locks! Curly locks!

Wilt thou be mine?

Thou shalt not wash dishes

Nor yet feed the swine.

But sit on a cushion

And sew a fine seam,

And feed upon strawberries

Sugar and cream.

Pussy-Cat Mew

Pussy-cat Mew jumped over a coal,

And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.

Pussy-cat Mew shall have no more milk

Till she has mended her gown of silk.

Draw a Pail of Water

Draw a pail of water

For my Lady’s daughter.

Father’s a King,

Mother’s a Queen,

My two little sisters are dressed in green,

Stamping marigolds and parsley.

I Saw a Ship a-sailing

I saw a ship a-sailing,

A-sailing on the sea;

And it was full of pretty things

For baby and for me.

There were sweetmeats in the cabin,

And apples in the hold;

The sails were made of silk,

And the masts were made of gold.

The four-and-twenty sailors

That stood between the decks,

Were four-and-twenty white mice,

With chains about their necks.

The captain was a duck,

With a packet on his back;

And when the ship began to move,

The captain cried, “Quack, quack!”

The Nut-Tree

I had a little nut-tree,

Nothing would it bear

But a silver nutmeg

And a golden pear;

The King of Spain’s daughter

She came to see me,

And all because of my little nut-tree.

I skipped over water,

I danced over sea,

And all the birds in the air couldn’t catch me.

My Maid Mary

My maid Mary she minds the dairy,

While I go a-hoeing and a-mowing each morn;

Gaily run the reel and the little spinning-wheel,

Whilst I am singing and mowing my corn.

The Wind and the Fisherman

When the wind is in the East,

’Tis neither good for man or beast;

When the wind is in the North,

The skilful fisher goes not forth;

When the wind is in the South,

It blows the bait in the fish’s mouth;

When the wind is in the West,

Then ’tis at the very best.

Blow, Wind, Blow

Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go!

That the miller may grind his corn;

That the baker may take it and into rolls make it,

And send us some hot in the morn.

All Busy

The cock’s on the house-top,

Blowing his horn;

The bull’s in the barn,

A-threshing of corn;

The maids in the meadows

Are making the hay,

The ducks in the river

Are swimming away.

Winter has Come

Cold and raw

The north wind doth blow

Bleak in the morning early;

All the hills are covered with snow,

And winter’s now come fairly.

Poor Robin

The north wind doth blow,

And we shall have snow,

And what will poor Robin do then, poor thing?

He’ll sit in the barn,

And keep himself warm,

And hide his head under his wing, poor thing!

I have a Little Sister

I have a little sister, they call her Peep, Peep,

She wades the waters, deep, deep, deep;

She climbs the mountains, high, high, high;

Poor little creature, she has but one eye.

(A star.)

In Marble Walls

In marble walls as white as milk,

Lined with a skin as soft as silk,

Within a fountain crystal-clear,

A golden apple doth appear.

No doors there are to this stronghold,

Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.

(An egg.)

FAMILIAR OBJECTS

Here are some poems about things with which we are all quite familiar: the Moon and the Stars that we see through our bedroom window; Pussy purring on the hearthrug, the spotted shell on the mantelpiece.

The Moon

O, look at the moon!

She is shining up there;

O mother, she looks

Like a lamp in the air.

Last week she was smaller,

And shaped like a bow;

But now she’s grown bigger,

And round as an O.

Pretty moon, pretty moon,

How you shine on the door,

And make it all bright

On my nursery floor!

You shine on my playthings,

And show me their place,

And I love to look up

At your pretty bright face.

And there is a star

Close by you, and maybe

That small twinkling star

Is your little baby.

Eliza Lee Follen.

The Star

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,

When he nothing shines upon,

Then you show your little light,

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveller in the dark

Thanks you for your tiny spark;

He could not see which way to go,

If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,

And often through my curtains peep,

For you never shut your eye

Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark

Lights the traveller in the dark,

Though I know not what you are,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Ann and Jane Taylor.

Kitty

Once there was a little kitty

Whiter than snow;

In a barn she used to frolic,

Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie

Ran to and fro;

For she heard the kitty coming,

Long time ago.

Two eyes had little kitty,

Black as a sloe;

And they spied the little mousie,

Long time ago.

Four paws had little kitty,

Paws soft as dough,

And they caught the little mousie,

Long time ago.

Nine teeth had little kitty,

All in a row;

And they bit the little mousie,

Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie,

Little mouse cried “Oh!”

But she got away from kitty,

Long time ago.

Mrs E. Prentiss.

Kitty: How to Treat Her

I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm,

And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm;

So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,

But Pussy and I very gently will play.

Kitty: what She thinks of Herself

I am the Cat of Cats. I am

The everlasting cat!

Cunning, and old, and sleek as jam,

The everlasting cat!

I hunt the vermin in the night—

The everlasting cat!

For I see best without the light—

The everlasting cat!

W. B. Rands.

The Sea Shell

Sea Shell, Sea Shell,

Sing me a song, O please!

A song of ships and sailor-men,

Of parrots and tropical trees;

Of islands lost in the Spanish Main

Which no man ever may see again,

Of fishes and corals under the waves,

And sea-horses stabled in great green caves—

Sea Shell, Sea Shell,

Sing me a song, O please!

Amy Lowell.

COUNTRY BOYS’ SONGS

The Cuckoo

The cuckoo’s a bonny bird,

She sings as she flies;

She brings us good tidings,

And tells us no lies.

She sucks little birds’ eggs,

To make her voice clear,

And never cries Cuckoo

Till the spring of the year.

The Bird-Scarer’s Song

We’ve ploughed our land, we’ve sown our seed,

We’ve made all neat and gay;

Then take a bit and leave a bit,

Away, birds, away!

Cradle Song

Sleep, baby, sleep,

Our cottage vale is deep;

The little lamb is on the green,

With woolly fleece so soft and clean,

Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep,

Down where the woodbines creep;

Be always like the lamb so mild,

A kind and sweet and gentle child,

Sleep, baby, sleep!

GOOD NIGHT!

Little baby, lay your head

On your pretty cradle-bed;

Shut your eye-peeps, now the day

And the light are gone away;

All the clothes are tucked in tight;

Little baby dear, good night.

Yes, my darling, well I know

How the bitter wind doth blow;

And the winter’s snow and rain

Patter on the window-pane:

But they cannot come in here,

To my little baby dear.

For the window shutteth fast,

Till the stormy night is past;

And the curtains warm are spread

Round about her cradle-bed:

So till morning shineth bright

Little baby dear, good night!

Ann and Jane Taylor.

For Those a Little Older

A BUNCH OF LENT LILIES

Here three Poets treat the same flower each from his own distinct and delightful point of view. To the first it appeals as the flower of courage, the brave early comer; to the second it is the early goer, the flower of a too swift departure—though daffodils really bloom for a fairly long time, as flowers go; the third is grateful for an imperishable recollection.

Daffodils

... Daffodils

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty.

Shakespeare.

To Daffodils

Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain’d his noon.

Stay, stay

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the evensong;

And, having pray’d together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or anything.

We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away

Like to the summer’s rain;

Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,

Ne’er to be found again.

Robert Herrick.

Daffodils

I wander’d lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch’d in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth.

SEASONS AND WEATHER

The Months

January brings the snow,

Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,

Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,

Stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,

Scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,

Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,

Fills the children’s hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,

Apricots and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,

Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit,

Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant,

Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast,

Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,

Blazing fire and Christmas treat.

Sara Coleridge.

The Wind in a Frolic

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,

Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap!

Now for a madcap galloping chase!

I’ll make a commotion in every place!”

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,

Creaking the signs and scattering down

Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,

Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread stalls.

There never was heard a much lustier shout,

As the apples and oranges trundled about;

And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes

For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,

And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.

It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,

And tossed the colts’ manes all about their brows,

Till, offended at such a familiar salute,

They all turned their backs, and stood sullenly mute.

So on it went, capering and playing its pranks;

Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks;

Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,

Or the traveller grave on the king’s highway.

It was not too nice[1] to hustle the bags

Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;

’Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke

With the doctor’s wig, or the gentleman’s cloak.

Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, “Now,

You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you bow!”

And it made them bow without more ado,

Or it cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm,

Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm;

And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,

And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;

There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on

Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane

With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain;

For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood

With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

But away went the wind in its holiday glee,

And now it was far on the billowy sea,

And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,

And the little boats darted to and fro.

But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest,

On the sea-bird’s rock in the gleaming West,

Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,

How little of mischief it had done.

William Howitt.

[1] nice: particular.

The Four Sweet Months

First, April, she with mellow showers

Opens the way for early flowers;

Then after her comes smiling May,

In a more sweet and rich array;

Next enters June, and brings us more

Gems than those two that went before:

Then, lastly, July comes and she

More wealth brings in than all those three.

Robert Herrick.

Glad Day

Here’s another day, dear,

Here’s the sun again

Peeping in his pleasant way

Through the window pane.

Rise and let him in, dear,

Hail him “hip hurray!”

Now the fun will all begin.

Here’s another day!

Down the coppice path, dear,

Through the dewy glade,

(When the Morning took her bath

What a splash she made!)

Up the wet wood-way, dear,

Under dripping green

Run to meet another day,

Brightest ever seen.

Mushrooms in the field, dear,

Show their silver gleam.

What a dainty crop they yield

Firm as clouted cream,

Cool as balls of snow, dear,

Sweet and fresh and round!

Ere the early dew can go

We must clear the ground.

Such a lot to do, dear,

Such a lot to see!

How we ever can get through

Fairly puzzles me.

Hurry up and out, dear,

Then—away! away!

In and out and round about,

Here’s another day!

W. Graham Robertson.

Buttercups and Daisies

Buttercups and daisies—

O the pretty flowers!

Coming ere the spring-time,

To tell of sunny hours.

When the trees are leafless;

When the fields are bare;

Buttercups and daisies

Spring up here and there.

Welcome, yellow buttercups!

Welcome, daisies white!

Ye are in my spirit

Vision’d, a delight!

Coming ere the spring-time,

Of sunny hours to tell—

Speaking to our hearts of Him

Who doeth all things well.

Mary Howitt.

The Merry Month of March

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Plough-boy is whooping anon, anon.

There’s joy in the mountains;

There’s life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth.

What the Birds Say

Do you know what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet and thrush say “I love and I love!”

In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;

What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,

And singing, and loving, all come back together.

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,

The green fields below him, the blue sky above,

That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he—

“I love my love, and my love loves me!”

S. T. Coleridge.

Spring’s Procession

First came the primrose,

On the bank high,

Like a maiden looking forth

From the window of a tower

When the battle rolls below,

So look’d she,

And saw the storms go by.

Then came the wind-flower

In the valley left behind,

As a wounded maiden, pale

With purple streaks of woe,

When the battle has roll’d by

Wanders to and fro,

So tottered she,

Dishevell’d in the wind.

Then came the daisies,

On the first of May,

Like a banner’d show’s advance

While the crowd runs by the way,

With ten thousand flowers about them
they came trooping through the fields.

As a happy people come,

So came they,

As a happy people come

When the war has roll’d away,

With dance and tabor, pipe and drum,

And all make holiday.

Then came the cowslip,

Like a dancer in the fair,

She spread her little mat of green,

And on it danced she.

With a fillet bound about her brow,

A fillet round her happy brow,

A golden fillet round her brow,

And rubies in her hair.

Sydney Dobell.

The Call of the Woods

Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live in the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleas’d with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Shakespeare.

A Prescription for a Spring Morning

At early dawn through London you must go

Until you come where long black hedgerows grow,

With pink buds pearl’d, with here and there a tree,

And gates and stiles; and watch good country folk;

And scent the spicy smoke

Of wither’d weeds that burn where gardens be;

And in a ditch perhaps a primrose see.

The rooks shall stalk the plough, larks mount the skies,

Blackbirds and speckled thrushes sing aloud,

Hid in the warm white cloud

Mantling the thorn, and far away shall rise

The milky low of cows and farm-yard cries.

From windy heavens the climbing sun shall shine,

And February greet you like a maid

In russet cloak array’d;

And you shall take her for your mistress fine,

And pluck a crocus for her valentine.

John Davidson.

The Country Faith

Here in the country’s heart

Where the grass is green,

Life is the same sweet life

As it e’er hath been

Trust in a God still lives,

And the bell at morn

Floats with a thought of God

O’er the rising corn.

God comes down in the rain,

And the crop grows tall—

This is the country faith,

And the best of all.

Norman Gale.

The Butterfly’s Ball

“Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste

To the Butterfly’s Ball and the Grasshopper’s Feast;

The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has summoned the crew,

And the revels are now only waiting for you.”

So said little Robert, and pacing along,

His merry Companions came forth in a throng,

And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood,

Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood,

Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of Air

For an Evening’s Amusement together repair.

And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,

Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back.

And there was the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too,

With all their Relations, green, orange and blue.

And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down,

And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown;

Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring,

But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.

And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole,

And brought to the feast his blind Brother, the Mole,

And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell,

Came from a great distance, the length of an ell.

A Mushroom their Table, and on it was laid

A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made.

The Viands were various, to each of their taste,

And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast.

Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,

The Frog from a corner look’d up to the skies;

And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see,

Mounted high overhead and look’d down from a tree.

Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine,

To show his dexterity on the tight-line.

From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung,

Then quick as an arrow he darted along.

But just in the middle—oh! shocking to tell,

From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell.

Yet he touched not the ground, but with talons outspread,

Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.

Then the Grasshopper came, with a jerk and a spring,

Very long was his leg, though but short was his Wing;

He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,

Then chirp’d his own praises the rest of the night.

With step so majestic the Snail did advance,

And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance;

But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head,

And went in his own little chamber to bed.

Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night,

Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light.

“Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see,

For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me.”

So said little Robert, and pacing along,

His merry Companions return’d in a throng.

William Roscoe.

TASTES AND PREFERENCES

A Wish

Mine be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft beneath my thatch

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing

In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze,

And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Samuel Rogers.

Wishing

Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose,

A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring!

The stooping boughs above me,

The wandering bee to love me,

The fern and moss to creep across,

And the Elm-tree for our King!

Nay—stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree,

A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!

The winds would set them dancing,

The sun and moonshine glance in,

The birds would house among the boughs,

And sweetly sing!

O—no! I wish I were a Robin,

A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;

Through forest, field, or garden,

And ask no leave or pardon,

Till Winter comes with icy thumbs

To ruffle up our wing!

Well—tell! Where should I fly to,

Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?

Before a day was over,

Home comes the rover,

For Mother’s kiss,—sweeter this

Than any other thing!

William Allingham.

Bunches of Grapes

“Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy;

“Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine;

“A junket of cream and a cranberry tart

For me,” says Jane.

“Love-in-a-mist,” says Timothy;

“Primroses pale,” says Elaine;

“A nosegay of pinks and mignonette

For me,” says Jane.

“Chariots of gold,” says Timothy;

“Silvery wings,” says Elaine;

“A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay

For me,” says Jane.

Walter Ramal.

Contentment

Once on a time an old red hen

Went strutting round with pompous clucks,

For she had little babies ten,

A part of which were tiny ducks.

“’Tis very rare that hens,” said she,

“Have baby ducks as well as chicks—

But I possess, as you can see,

Of chickens four and ducklings six!”

A season later, this old hen

Appeared, still cackling of her luck,

For, though she boasted babies ten,

Not one among them was a duck!

“’Tis well,” she murmured, brooding o’er

The little chicks of fleecy down,

“My babies now will stay ashore,

And, consequently, cannot drown!”

The following spring the old red hen

Clucked just as proudly as of yore—

But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,

Instead of chickens as before!

“’Tis better,” said the old red hen,

As she surveyed her waddling brood;

“A little water now and then

Will surely do my darlings good!”

But oh! alas, how very sad!

When gentle spring rolled round again,

The eggs eventuated bad,

And childless was the old red hen!

Yet patiently she bore her woe,

And still she wore a cheerful air,

And said: “’Tis best these things are so,

For babies are a dreadful care!”

I half suspect that many men,

And many, many women too,

Could learn a lesson from the hen

With plumage of vermilion hue.

She ne’er presumed to take offence

At any fate that might befall,

But meekly bowed to Providence—

She was contented—that was all!

Eugene Field.

TOYS AND PLAY, IN-DOORS AND OUT

The Land of Story-Books

At evening when the lamp is lit,

Around the fire my parents sit;

They sit at home and talk and sing,

And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl

All in the dark along the wall,

And follow round the forest track

Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,

All in my hunter’s camp I lie,

And play at books that I have read

Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,

These are my starry solitudes;

And there the river by whose brink

The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away

As if in firelit camp they lay,

And I, like to an Indian scout,

Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,

Home I return across the sea,

And go to bed with backward looks

At my dear land of Story-books.

R. L. Stevenson.

Sand Castles

Build me a castle of sand

Down by the sea.

Here on the edge of the strand

Build it for me.

How shall a foeman invade,

Where may he land,

While we can raise with our spade

Castles of sand?

Turrets upleap and aspire,

Battlements rise

Sweeping the sea with their fire,

Storming the skies.

Pile that a monarch might own,

Mightily plann’d!

I can’t sit here on a throne,

This is too grand.

Build me a cottage of sand

Up on the hill;

Snug in a cleft it must stand

Sunny and still.

Plant it with ragwort and ling,

Bramble and bine:

Castles I’ll leave to the King,

This shall be mine.

Storm-clouds drive over the land,

High flies the spray;

Gone are our houses of sand,

Vanished away!

Look at the damage you’ve done,

Sea-wave and rain!

—“Nay, we but give you your fun

Over again.”

W. Graham Robertson.

Ring o’ Roses

Hush a while, my darling, for the long day closes,

Nodding into slumber on the blue hill’s crest.

See the little clouds play Ring a ring o’ roses,

Planting Fairy gardens in the red-rose West.

Greet him for us, cloudlets, say we’re not forgetting

Golden gifts of sunshine, merry hours of play.

Ring a ring o’ roses round the sweet sun’s setting,

Spread a bed of roses for the dear dead day.

Hush-a-bye, my little one, the dear day dozes,

Doffed his crown of kingship and his fair flag furled,

While the earth and sky play Ring a ring o’ roses,

Ring a ring o’ roses round the rose-red world.

W. Graham Robertson.

DREAM-LAND

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe—

Sailed on a river of crystal light,

Into a sea of dew.

“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”

The old moon asked the three.

“We have come to fish for the herring fish

That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we!”

Said Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe,

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew.

The little stars were the herring fish

That lived in that beautiful sea—

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—

Never afeared are we”:

So cried the stars to the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam—

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home;

’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed

As if it could not be,

And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea—

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one’s trundle-bed.

So shut your eyes while mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock in the misty sea,

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Eugene Field.

The Drummer-Boy and the Sheperdess

Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum?

And why do you weep, sitting here on your thumb?

The soldiers are out, and the fifes we can hear;

But where is the drum of the young grenadier?

“My dear little drum it was stolen away

Whilst I was asleep on a sunshiny day;

It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee,

And sheep and a shepherdess under a tree.”

Shepherdess, shepherdess, where is your crook?