Rhymes and Jingles

Ye gentlemen far, and gentlemen near,
And ladies fair, and children dear,
Come, list to the mournful tale—heigho!—
Of the frog who wouldn't a-wooing go.

Once on a time, when nations were few,
And whether the world stood still or flew,
Nobody cared and nobody knew,
A respectable pair,
By name of Gluck,
Lived in a pool
On the Isle of Muck.
Oh! very blest were this pair of frogs,
Their lot was cast in the softest of bogs.
Mrs. Gluck had an exquisite voice,
Their sky was serenest,
Their puddle the greenest
That ever bade heart of a froggy rejoice.

But of all the blessings that came to this pair,
Most precious of all was a son and heir,
With the widest of mouths and the loveliest stare—
Their brisk little polliwog,
Hearty and hale;
Their own little frisky one,
All head and tail!
Ah! never were parents so happy as these,
Though their child, to be sure, wouldn't sit on their knees.
And this, let me say, was a very bad sign,
Though they didn't perceive it
And couldn't conceive it,
For it proved that he didn't to duty incline.

Well, the days flew along, and their child grew apace,
Till at last a fine form came to balance his face;
And his legs grew so fast they seemed running a race.
Completed at last,
With his garment of green,
Just the handsomest froggy
That ever was seen,
He said to his mother: "Now, madam, I'm blown
If—ahem! I should say, I am perfectly grown;
So in future I'd wish my own master to be,
Though I thank you most kindly
For loving me blindly."
(Such airs in a youngster were dreadful to see!)

"O son," quoth his mother, "you fill me with pain!"
And she sobbed and she sighed with her whole might and main,
And called to her husband in desperate strain.
"Pooh, pooh!" said old Gluck,
"The youngster is right,
So let him alone, ma'am,
Or you and I'll fight.
And, hark ye, my son, I have noticed of late
Yon puddle attracts you. Tis well. Find your mate.
The Gungs, as a family, seem to adore you.
Select your own waters,
Take one of the daughters,
And leap into life like your father before you."

Alas for young puddledum! Proudly he scouted
The sire's good advice. He sulked and he pouted,
And the Gung girls, in turn, every one of them, flouted.
"What, choose me a wife!
Does he think I'm a fool?
No, my motto for life
Is: one frog to a pool.
Shall I yield up my freedom—be tied to a log?
Not I, by my jumps!" quoth this prig of a frog.
"Miss Gung, sir, for all I'll prevent, gug-a-loo!
May sing till they carry me,
'No one will marry me,
Nobody, nobody's coming to woo!'"

I must tell you; old Gluck, with his puddle so fair,
Was known by the banks as mud-millionaire.
So, young Gluck (who you know, was his first son and heir),

Soon set up a team
Of sleek water-rats,
And covered his head
With the brightest of hats;
Then, with a phaeton and footman or two,
He drove forth to dazzle, to awe and subdue.
Oh! glum was his face, his heart icy cold!
And the seat of his car,
Though too wide by far
For one single frog, not another would hold.

But when did the heartless, disdainful, and flat
Live on, unrebuked by this world's tit for tat?
And why did our frog trust his fate to a rat?
One day, as he drove,
There came forth to stare—
Kingfisher and Duck—
A most comical pair.
The first was the proudest that ever was seen,
For the rod in his hand was the gift of his queen;
But the other—ah! never did duck so expand;
Yet strut as he could,
And strain as he would,
Poor Quack, for the life of him, couldn't look grand.

Yet he took it amiss that his efforts were lost
To thaw with his splendor that armor of frost
(For our frog quite disdained any duck to accost),
And loudly he shouted,
"Come back, sir, come back!
You're spoiling our road
With your zig-zagging track,
Come back, or yon man, with his cat-o'-nine tails,
Will be after your team, till you whistle like quails—
Great Neptune! If there ain't the mischief to pay!
Just as sure as I waddle,
Or swim, dive, or paddle,
Those rats of young Gluck's are a-running away!"

Too true. They had heard the duck's dreadful appeal—
A cat with nine tails! why, the thought made them squeal.
And they ran for their holes, with poor Gluck, neck and heel.
But whether he lived,
Or whether he died,
Or whether the rats
Managed safely to hide,
Or whether his parents e'er saw him again,
Or whether Miss Gung always waited in vain,
'Neath her lily-pads green, for a lover, or no,
Are things that belong
To the rest of my song
Of the frog who wouldn't a-wooing go.

Oh! moan, ye winds, by the green pool's brink!
And quickly, ye Glucks, in the deep mud sink;
Prepare all the dregs of affliction to drink!
The pride of the puddle,
Breath of thy breath,
Lies low in the marshes,
Fainting to death.
Oh! weep, poor Miss Gung! for there never shall be
In thy home of the lilies a lover for thee.
Thy sun goeth down with never a glow,
He hath frowned on thy fate,
On thy maiden estate,
And the one whom thou lovest is lying all low!

Ha! what is this coming? what wreck do they spy?
What driverless rat-steeds are these rushing by?
"Our child!" cried the mother; "oh! fly to him, fly!"
These words to old Gluck,
And that mother fell dead;
She had burst with her grief,
And the vital spark fled.
Then madly in search leaped that father bereft,
And wildly those goggle-eyes peered right and left;
Till at last, where the bank lay a little aslant,
He saw his son lying,
Apparently dying,
For all he could do was to quiver and pant.

"Oh! leap, little Eng" (this, Gluck said to his latest,
A froggy half-grown), "bring of doctors the greatest,
And look to thy speed, that thou never abatest.
Bring Tightskin, or Squatt,
Or my cousin Paff-Puff;
But don't bring them all—
One doctor's enough.
O horror! he fails! Be quick, Eng, be quick!
His eye-balls are sinking! his breath's growing thick.
Either Tightskin or Squatt will be better than Paff—"
But Eng never heard,
He had left at the word,
Bound, of course, for the third of that medical staff.

"Oh! look at me, son! Oh! lift up your head!
And don't lie so limp, for you fill me with dread
For pity's sake, hear me. Your mother is dead!"
"Dead!" gasped Master Gluck,
"And I lying here?
Oh! why will these mothers
Step out of their sphere?
If ever I needed good nursing 'tis now,
And your masculine paw, sir, it scratches my brow.
I need some one gentle—more gentle than air—
O father! I fear
I am injured in here."
And our frog pressed his heart in the deepest despair.

"Now, bear up, my son," cried the sorrowing Gluck.
"See! the doctor is coming. He'll bring us good luck.
By my croak! but it's Paff, the conceited old buck."
Then, quick to the doctor,
"My child! Is he killed?
Oh! save me my son
From the phaeton spilled.
Haste! give me the lotion! I'll pour it on here."
"No, no," moaned the patient, "I can't have him near,
His rubbing is torture. I'd rather be hung.
Dear doctor, he's rough—
He's nursed me enough—
Oh! send little Eng for that oldest Miss Gung."

Then outspake the uncle, with wrath in his face,
And a grunt of denial that filled all the place,
"No, no, Master Gluck, I'll attend to your case,
Humph! nursing indeed!
You've called me too late.
In less than an hour, sir,
We'll lay you out straight.
No Miss Gung shall you have. Her father's my friend.
If you'd done as you ought—Never mind. I intend
To have all my sons, cousin Gluck, marry early.
Had my patient seen fit
To wed, I'll admit
He might have been saved," said this doctor so surly.

And then, while our hero lay moaning with pain,
And his father kept rubbing and fussing in vain,
The doctor continued, in furious strain,
"This accident—humph!
Cousin Gluck, on my word,
With a family team, sir,
Would not have occurred.
This thinking and plotting for self all the while,
And frisking about, sir, in bachelor style,
With no one to nurse you when hurt, sir, don't pay."
"Good doctor," moaned froggy,
"It isn't too late,
Even now she'd consent
To soften my fate.
Oh Eng! dear, run off for Miss Gung, right away."

These words were his last. He never moved more,
But lay through the starlight, all fainting and sore
(And those weary night-watchers, how rasping their snore)!
In the morning they found him
Stretched out stiff and stark—
He had died all alone
In the cold and the dark.
The chord of existence had snapt, they averred,
In trying to utter one sweet little word.
And, as over his body his weeping sire hung,
'Twas plain to be seen,
From that mouth's very mien,
That the last mournful sound of his life had been—Gung!

Oh! gentlemen far, and gentlemen near,
And striplings fair, and children dear,
Be warned by the mournful tale, heigho!
Of the frog who wouldn't a-wooing go.

Bother! was all John Clatterby said.
His breath came quick, and his cheek was red,
He flourished his elbows, and looked absurd,
While, over and over, his "Bother!" I heard.

Harder and harder the fellow worked,
Vainly and savagely still he jerked;
The boot, half on, would dangle and flap—
"Oh bother!" and then he broke the strap.

Redder than ever his hot cheek flamed;
Harder than ever he fumed and blamed;
He wriggled his heel, and tugged at the leather
Till knees and chin came bumping together.

"My boy!" said I, in a voice like a flute,
"Why not—ahem!—try the mate of that boot;
Or the other foot?"—"I'm a goose," laughed John,
As he stood, in a flash, with his two boots on.

In half the affairs
Of this busy life
(As that same day
I said to my wife),
Our troubles come
From trying to put
The left-hand shoe
On the right-hand foot,
Or vice versa
(Meaning, reverse, sir).
To try to force,
As quite of course,
Any wrong foot
In the right shoe,
Is the silliest thing
A man can do.

Old man with the hour-glass, halt! halt! I pray—
Don't you see you are taking my children away?
My own little babies who came long ago,
You stole them, old man with the beard white as snow!

My beautiful babies, so bonny and bright!
Where have you carried them far out of sight?
Oh, dimpled their cheeks were, and sunny their hair!
But I cannot find them; I've searched everywhere.

My three-year-old toddlers, they shouted in glee;
They sported about me; they sat on my knee.
Oh, their prattle and laughter were silvery rain!
Old man, must I list for their voices in vain?

They were here; they were gone while their kisses were warm.
I scarce knew the hour when they slipped from my arm—
Oh! where was I looking when peerless and sweet,
They followed the track of your echoless feet?

My brave little school-boys who ran in and out,
And lifted the air with their song and their shout;
My boys on the coldest days ever aglow,
My dear, romping school-boys who bothered me so.

There were two of them then; and one of the two—
Ah! I never was watchful enough—followed you.
My chubby-faced darling, my kite-flying pet—
Alack! all his playthings are lying here yet.

And the other. O Time! do not take him away!
For a few precious years, I implore, let him stay.
I love him—I need him—my blessing and joy!
You have had all the rest: leave me one little boy!

He halts! He will stop! No; the fall of the sand
In the hour-glass deceived me. It seemed at a stand.
But whom have we here? Jamie! Harry! how? why
Just as many as ever—and Time passing by?

I can hardly believe it. But surely it's clear
My babies, my toddlers, my school-boys are here!
And I've two great big fellows (one lithe and one tall)
Besides all the rest—and more precious than all,

Jamie, my bouncer, my man-boy, my pride!
Harry, my sunbeam, whatever betide;
Both of them, all of them, dozens in two—
Crowds of my children are standing in view!

Move on, then, O Time! I have nothing to say,
You have left me far more than you've taken away.
And yet I would whisper a word ere you go:
You've a year of my Harry's—the last one, you know—

How does it rank among those that have flown?
Was it worthily used when he called it his own?
God filled it with happiness, comfort, and health—
Did my darling use rightly its Love-given wealth?

No answer in words. Yet it really did seem
That the sand sparkled lightly—the scythe sent a gleam.
Is it answer and promise? God grant it be so,
From that silent old man with the beard white as snow.

A pig scrambled up from his slumbers,
And grunted with rage at the lark:
"Why must you begin your loud carol
Before we are out of the dark?"

"Good sir," said the lark, as he flitted
Right gayly from blossom to bud,
"Look up to the sky for your morning—
It never begins in the mud!"

'Twas a lonely bog,
With a boy and frog
On the marsh's brink.
"I'll kill him!" cried the boy. In fact
He leaned to do the dreadful act,—
When lo! a splash!
And in a flash
Did froggie think:

Too true
He meant to do
Some harm to me,
But then, you see
To mock him now would not be kind,
Lest he should drown.
I'll just go down
And tickle his ears
To calm his fears
And let him know that I didn't mind.

Soon, a dripping, sobbing, muddy boy
Ran home across that lonesome bog;
While placidly smiling on the shore
Squatted that thoroughly well-meaning frog.

Oho! have you seen the Frost-King,
A-marching up the hill?
His hoary face is stern and pale,
His touch is icy chill.
He sends the birdlings to the South,
He bids the brooks be still;
Yet not in wrath or cruelty
He marches up the hill.

He will often rest at noontime,
To see the sunbeams play;
And flash his spears of icicles,
Or let them melt away.
He'll toss the snow-flakes in the air,
Nor let them go nor stay;
Then hold his breath while swift they fall,
That coasting boys may play.

He'll touch the brooks and rivers wide,
That skating crowds may shout;
He'll make the people far and near
Remember he's about.
He'll send his nimble, frosty Jack—
Without a shade of doubt—
To do all kinds of merry pranks,
And call the children out;

He'll sit upon the whitened fields,
And reach his icy hand
O'er houses where the sudden cold
Folks cannot understand.
The very moon, that ventures forth
From clouds so soft and grand,
Will stare to see the stiffened look
That settles o'er the land.

And so the Frost-King o'er the hills,
And o'er the startled plain,
Will come and go from year to year
Till Earth grows young again—
Till Time himself shall cease to be,
Till gone are hill and plain:
Whenever Winter comes to stay,
The hoary King shall reign.

The summer is coming—hurrah!
Old winter has gone for good.
The summer is coming—hurrah! hurrah!
The birdies are in the wood.

The chickens are coming—hurrah!
Hear how the old hen clucks:
The chickens are coming—hurrah! hurrah!
And the queer little turkeys and ducks.

The tad-poles are coming—hurrah!
With their comical, wriggling tails:
The tad-poles are coming—hurrah! hurrah!
Like little mites of whales.

The crickets are coming—hurrah!
And katydids always so funny:
And fire-flies too—hurrah! hurrah!
And bumble-bees laden with honey.

The ant-hills are coming—hurrah!
What fun to see them rise:
The ant-hills are coming—hurrah! hurrah!
They're growing before our eyes.

The daisies are coming—hurrah!
We'll weave them in many a chain:
The daisies are coming—hurrah! hurrah!
The daisies are coming again!

The cherries are coming—hurrah!
And apples and peaches and plums:
The fruit is a-coming—hurrah! hurrah!
We'll feast on it when it comes.

The swallows are coming—hurrah!
There'll be lots of birds in the sky;
The swallows are coming—hurrah! hurrah!
We'll whoop at them as they fly.

The corn-fields are coming—hurrah!
So green and waving and high:
The corn-fields are coming—hurrah! hurrah!
We'll hide in them by-and-by.

The summer is coming—hurrah!
We can bathe and swim and dive:
The summer is coming—hurrah! hurrah!
Oh! it's jolly to be alive!

It's jolly to live—hurrah!
Let us all be good and glad:
It's the grandest world—hurrah! hurrah!
That ever we children have had.

Baby Nell had ten little toes,
Baby Nell had two little hose,
She always stared when the hose went on,
And thought her ten little toes were gone.

Mamma, what's zis on my ap'on?
Nassy ap'on make me ky;
Naughty ap'on awfu' 'ticky—
Puttin' 'lasses in my eye.

Go 'way, B'idget! P'ease don't wass me
(Don't want on no pooty d'esses),
Dim me nudder piece of tandy,
Den I be oor 'ittle pres-sus.

Mamma, see, zis naughty soo-string
Make poor Damie tumble down,
It's all b'oke—I want my Pop-pa
Buy me nudder, 'way down town.

Mamma, see zis funny tup!
Damie hit it wiz his hammer.
Dess it's b'oke. Don't yip me, Mamma,
If oo do, I tell my Damma.

Mamma, dess I dettin s'eepy;
Don't make Damie tate a nap;
Tell me pooty 'tory, Mamma—
Tate poor Damie on oor lap.

Pooty Mamma, b'essed Mamma—
(Want a d'ink out Damie's mug?)
O dat button hurt me dreffel!
Dat's yight, Mamma—dim me hug!

How did they learn that their ways were small?
Jean and Kitty—
How did they know they were scorned by all?
Jean and Kitty.
Why, they listened one day, at a neighbor's blinds,
And heard the family speak their minds—
What a pity!