SLEEP, little pigeon, and fold your wings—
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star—
Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—
Calling and tinkling the night along.
Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—
Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping—
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping—
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”
Up from the sea there floats the sob
Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
THE LYTTEL BOY
SOME time there ben a lyttel boy
That wolde not renne and play,
And helpless like that little tyke
Ben allwais in the way.
“Goe, make you merrie with the rest,”
His weary moder cried;
But with a frown he catcht her gown
And hong untill her side.
That wolde not renne and play,
And helpless like that little tyke
Ben allwais in the way.
“Goe, make you merrie with the rest,”
His weary moder cried;
But with a frown he catcht her gown
And hong untill her side.
That boy did love his moder well,
Which spake him faire, I ween;
He loved to stand and hold her hand
And ken her with his een;
His cosset bleated in the croft,
His toys unheeded lay,—
He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe,
Ben allwais in the way.
Which spake him faire, I ween;
He loved to stand and hold her hand
And ken her with his een;
His cosset bleated in the croft,
His toys unheeded lay,—
He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe,
Ben allwais in the way.
Godde loveth children and doth gird
His throne with soche as these,
And he doth smile in plaisaunce while
They cluster at his knees;
And some time, when he looked on earth
And watched the bairns at play,
He kenned with joy a lyttel boy
Ben allwais in the way.
His throne with soche as these,
And he doth smile in plaisaunce while
They cluster at his knees;
And some time, when he looked on earth
And watched the bairns at play,
He kenned with joy a lyttel boy
Ben allwais in the way.
TEENY-WEENY
EVERY evening, after tea,
Teeny-Weeny comes to me,
And, astride my willing knee,
Plies his lash and rides away;
Though that palfrey, all too spare,
Finds his burden hard to bear,
Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care;
He commands, and I obey!
Teeny-Weeny comes to me,
And, astride my willing knee,
Plies his lash and rides away;
Though that palfrey, all too spare,
Finds his burden hard to bear,
Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care;
He commands, and I obey!
First it’s trot, and gallop then;
Now it’s back to trot again;
Teeny-Weeny likes it when
He is riding fierce and fast.
Then his dark eyes brighter grow
And his cheeks are all aglow:
“More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!”
Till the horse breaks down at last.
Now it’s back to trot again;
Teeny-Weeny likes it when
He is riding fierce and fast.
Then his dark eyes brighter grow
And his cheeks are all aglow:
“More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!”
Till the horse breaks down at last.
Oh, the strange and lovely sights
Teeny-Weeny sees of nights,
As he makes those famous flights
On that wondrous horse of his!
Oftentimes before he knows,
Wearylike his eyelids close,
And, still smiling, off he goes
Where the land of By-low is.
Teeny-Weeny sees of nights,
As he makes those famous flights
On that wondrous horse of his!
Oftentimes before he knows,
Wearylike his eyelids close,
And, still smiling, off he goes
Where the land of By-low is.
There he sees the folk of fay
Hard at ring-a-rosie play,
And he hears those fairies say:
“Come, let’s chase him to and fro!”
But, with a defiant shout,
Teeny puts that host to rout;
Of this tale I make no doubt,
Every night he tells it so.
Hard at ring-a-rosie play,
And he hears those fairies say:
“Come, let’s chase him to and fro!”
But, with a defiant shout,
Teeny puts that host to rout;
Of this tale I make no doubt,
Every night he tells it so.
So I feel a tender pride
In my boy who dares to ride
That fierce horse of his astride,
Off into those misty lands;
And as on my breast he lies,
Dreaming in that wondrous wise,
I caress his folded eyes,
Pat his little dimpled hands.
In my boy who dares to ride
That fierce horse of his astride,
Off into those misty lands;
And as on my breast he lies,
Dreaming in that wondrous wise,
I caress his folded eyes,
Pat his little dimpled hands.
On a time he went away,
Just a little while to stay,
And I’m not ashamed to say
I was very lonely then;
Life without him was so sad,
You can fancy I was glad
And made merry when I had
Teeny-Weeny back again!
Just a little while to stay,
And I’m not ashamed to say
I was very lonely then;
Life without him was so sad,
You can fancy I was glad
And made merry when I had
Teeny-Weeny back again!
NELLIE
HIS listening soul hears no echo of battle,
No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame;
But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle,
And softly he murmurs her idolized name.
And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging
As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee;
He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing—
And Nellie is coming from over the sea.
No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame;
But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle,
And softly he murmurs her idolized name.
And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging
As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee;
He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing—
And Nellie is coming from over the sea.
While each patriot’s hope stays the fullness of sorrow,
While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low,
He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow
Like an angel come back from the dear long ago.
Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion,
And what for our love or our grief careth he?
A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean,
And Nellie is coming from over the sea!
While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low,
He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow
Like an angel come back from the dear long ago.
Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion,
And what for our love or our grief careth he?
A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean,
And Nellie is coming from over the sea!
O daughter—my daughter! when Death stands before me
And beckons me off to that far misty shore,
Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me,
And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore.
In the grace of your love all my anguish abating,
I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he,
And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waiting
When Nellie was coming from over the sea.
And beckons me off to that far misty shore,
Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me,
And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore.
In the grace of your love all my anguish abating,
I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he,
And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waiting
When Nellie was coming from over the sea.
NORSE LULLABY
THE sky is dark and the hills are white
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”;
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
“Sleep, little one, sleep.”
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:
“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”;
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:
“Sleep, little one, sleep.”
GRANDMA’S PRAYER
I PRAY that, risen from the dead,
I may in glory stand—
A crown, perhaps, upon my head,
But a needle in my hand.
I may in glory stand—
A crown, perhaps, upon my head,
But a needle in my hand.
I’ve never learned to sing or play,
So let no harp be mine;
From birth unto my dying day,
Plain sewing’s been my line.
So let no harp be mine;
From birth unto my dying day,
Plain sewing’s been my line.
SOME TIME
LAST night, my darling, as you slept,
I thought I heard you sigh,
And to your little crib I crept,
And watched a space thereby;
Then, bending down, I kissed your brow—
For, oh! I love you so—
You are too young to know it now,
But some time you shall know.
I thought I heard you sigh,
And to your little crib I crept,
And watched a space thereby;
Then, bending down, I kissed your brow—
For, oh! I love you so—
You are too young to know it now,
But some time you shall know.
THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST
AS I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day,
I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way;
I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to me
That elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be!
The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs—
High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings,
But not so high as when a little boy I did my best
To scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way;
I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to me
That elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be!
The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs—
High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings,
But not so high as when a little boy I did my best
To scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prize
That dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise,
And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb,
He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him!
Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm—
But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm!
The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the rest
Ran every risk to carry off the old fire-hang-bird’s nest!
That dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise,
And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb,
He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him!
Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm—
But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm!
The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the rest
Ran every risk to carry off the old fire-hang-bird’s nest!
I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through,
That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue,
And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when she
Discovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree;
How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs,
She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs,
And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attest
That they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest!
That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue,
And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when she
Discovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree;
How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs,
She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs,
And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attest
That they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest!
Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there,
While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair,
The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go,
As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below!
And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chide
The callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside:
“Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest—
I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!”
While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair,
The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go,
As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below!
And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chide
The callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside:
“Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest—
I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!”
For many, very many years that mother-bird has come
To rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home.
She is the selfsame bird of old—I’m certain it is she—
Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me.
Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name
(And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same);
Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breast
To climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
To rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home.
She is the selfsame bird of old—I’m certain it is she—
Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me.
Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name
(And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same);
Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breast
To climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree,
And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as it used to be,
I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow,
For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago!
The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and I
Beheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high;
He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out West
His little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest!
And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as it used to be,
I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow,
For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago!
The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and I
Beheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high;
He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out West
His little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest!
Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be—
I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me!
They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to know
When brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago.
So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men,
They could recall with proper pride their country life again;
And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the best
Would be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me!
They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to know
When brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago.
So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men,
They could recall with proper pride their country life again;
And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the best
Would be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT
BUTTERCUP, Poppy, Forget-me-not—
These three bloomed in a garden spot;
And once, all merry with song and play,
A little one heard three voices say:
“Shine and shadow, summer and spring,
O thou child with the tangled hair
And laughing eyes! we three shall bring
Each an offering passing fair.”
The little one did not understand,
But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.
These three bloomed in a garden spot;
And once, all merry with song and play,
A little one heard three voices say:
“Shine and shadow, summer and spring,
O thou child with the tangled hair
And laughing eyes! we three shall bring
Each an offering passing fair.”
The little one did not understand,
But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.
Buttercup gamboled all day long,
Sharing the little one’s mirth and song;
Then, stealing along on misty gleams,
Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams.
Playing and dreaming—and that was all
Till once a sleeper would not awake;
Kissing the little face under the pall,
We thought of the words the third flower spake;
And we found betimes in a hallowed spot
The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.
Sharing the little one’s mirth and song;
Then, stealing along on misty gleams,
Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams.
Playing and dreaming—and that was all
Till once a sleeper would not awake;
Kissing the little face under the pall,
We thought of the words the third flower spake;
And we found betimes in a hallowed spot
The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.
Buttercup shareth the joy of day,
Glinting with gold the hours of play;
Bringeth the poppy sweet repose,
When the hands would fold and the eyes would close;
And after it all—the play and the sleep
Of a little life—what cometh then?
To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep
A new flower bringeth God’s peace again.
Each one serveth its tender lot—
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.
Glinting with gold the hours of play;
Bringeth the poppy sweet repose,
When the hands would fold and the eyes would close;
And after it all—the play and the sleep
Of a little life—what cometh then?
To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep
A new flower bringeth God’s peace again.
Each one serveth its tender lot—
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.
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.
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.
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 afeard are we”;
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
That lived in that beautiful sea—
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—
Never afeard 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.
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.
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.
GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE
OUT on the mountain over the town,
All night long, all night long,
The trolls go up and the trolls go down,
Bearing their packs and singing a song;
And this is the song the hill-folk croon,
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon—
This is ever their dolorous tune:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold—
Bright red gold for dearie!”
All night long, all night long,
The trolls go up and the trolls go down,
Bearing their packs and singing a song;
And this is the song the hill-folk croon,
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon—
This is ever their dolorous tune:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold—
Bright red gold for dearie!”
Deep in the hill a father delves
All night long, all night long;
None but the peering, furtive elves
Sees his toil and hears his song;
Merrily ever the cavern rings
As merrily ever his pick he swings,
And merrily ever this song he sings:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold—
Bright red gold for dearie!”
All night long, all night long;
None but the peering, furtive elves
Sees his toil and hears his song;
Merrily ever the cavern rings
As merrily ever his pick he swings,
And merrily ever this song he sings:
“Gold, gold! ever more gold—
Bright red gold for dearie!”
Mother is rocking thy lowly bed
All night long, all night long,
Happy to smooth thy curly head,
To hold thy hand and to sing her song:
’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,
Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,
And the burthen it beareth is not of gold,
But it’s “Love, love! nothing but love
Mother’s love for dearie!”
All night long, all night long,
Happy to smooth thy curly head,
To hold thy hand and to sing her song:
’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,
Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,
And the burthen it beareth is not of gold,
But it’s “Love, love! nothing but love
Mother’s love for dearie!”
THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME
DEAREST, how hard it is to say
That all is for the best,
Since, sometimes, in a grievous way
God’s will is manifest.
That all is for the best,
Since, sometimes, in a grievous way
God’s will is manifest.
See with what hearty, noisy glee
Our little ones to-night
Dance round and round our Christmas tree
With pretty toys bedight.
Our little ones to-night
Dance round and round our Christmas tree
With pretty toys bedight.
Dearest, one voice they may not hear,
One face they may not see—
Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer
Cometh to you and me?
One face they may not see—
Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer
Cometh to you and me?
Cometh before our misty eyes
That other little face,
And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,
That love in the old embrace.
That other little face,
And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,
That love in the old embrace.
Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,
Bringing his peace to men,
And he bringeth to you and to me the light
Of the old, old years again.
Bringing his peace to men,
And he bringeth to you and to me the light
Of the old, old years again.
Bringeth the peace of long ago,
When a wee one clasped your knee
And lisped of the morrow—dear one, you know—
And here come back is he!
When a wee one clasped your knee
And lisped of the morrow—dear one, you know—
And here come back is he!
TO A LITTLE BROOK
YOU’re not so big as you were then,
O little brook!—
I mean those hazy summers when
We boys roamed, full of awe, beside
Your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide,
And wondered if it could be true
That there were bigger brooks than you
O mighty brook, O peerless brook!
O little brook!—
I mean those hazy summers when
We boys roamed, full of awe, beside
Your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide,
And wondered if it could be true
That there were bigger brooks than you
O mighty brook, O peerless brook!
All up and down this reedy place
Where lives the brook,
We angled for the furtive dace;
The redwing-blackbird did his best
To make us think he’d built his nest
Hard by the stream, when, like as not,
He’d hung it in a secret spot
Far from the brook, the telltale brook!
Where lives the brook,
We angled for the furtive dace;
The redwing-blackbird did his best
To make us think he’d built his nest
Hard by the stream, when, like as not,
He’d hung it in a secret spot
Far from the brook, the telltale brook!
And often, when the noontime heat
Parboiled the brook,
We’d draw our boots and swing our feet
Upon the waves that, in their play,
Would tag us last and scoot away;
And mother never seemed to know
What burnt our legs and chapped them so—
But father guessed it was the brook!
Parboiled the brook,
We’d draw our boots and swing our feet
Upon the waves that, in their play,
Would tag us last and scoot away;
And mother never seemed to know
What burnt our legs and chapped them so—
But father guessed it was the brook!
And Fido—how he loved to swim
The cooling brook,
Whenever we’d throw sticks for him;
And how we boys did wish that we
Could only swim as good as he—
Why, Daniel Webster never was
Recipient of such great applause
As Fido, battling with the brook!
The cooling brook,
Whenever we’d throw sticks for him;
And how we boys did wish that we
Could only swim as good as he—
Why, Daniel Webster never was
Recipient of such great applause
As Fido, battling with the brook!
But once—O most unhappy day
For you, my brook!—
Came Cousin Sam along that way;
And, having lived a spell out West,
Where creeks aren’t counted much at best,
He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,
But, with superb indifference, stept
Across that brook—our mighty brook!
For you, my brook!—
Came Cousin Sam along that way;
And, having lived a spell out West,
Where creeks aren’t counted much at best,
He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,
But, with superb indifference, stept
Across that brook—our mighty brook!
Why do you scamper on your way,
You little brook,
When I come back to you to-day?
Is it because you flee the grass
That lunges at you as you pass,
As if, in playful mood, it would
Tickle the truant if it could,
You chuckling brook—you saucy brook?
You little brook,
When I come back to you to-day?
Is it because you flee the grass
That lunges at you as you pass,
As if, in playful mood, it would
Tickle the truant if it could,
You chuckling brook—you saucy brook?
CROODLIN’ DOO
HO, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin’ doo?
Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin’ on the lea?
Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me—
Got a lump o’ sugar an’ a posie for you,
Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!
Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin’ on the lea?
Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me—
Got a lump o’ sugar an’ a posie for you,
Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!
LITTLE MISTRESS SANS-MERCI
LITTLE Mistress Sans-Merci
Fareth world-wide, fancy free:
Trotteth cooing to and fro,
And her cooing is command—
Never ruled there yet, I trow,
Mightier despot in the land.
And my heart it lieth where
Mistress Sans-Merci doth fare.
Fareth world-wide, fancy free:
Trotteth cooing to and fro,
And her cooing is command—
Never ruled there yet, I trow,
Mightier despot in the land.
And my heart it lieth where
Mistress Sans-Merci doth fare.
Little Mistress Sans-Merci—
She hath made a slave of me!
“Go,” she biddeth, and I go—
“Come,” and I am fain to come—
Never mercy doth she show,
Be she wroth or frolicsome,
Yet am I content to be
Slave to Mistress Sans-Merci!
She hath made a slave of me!
“Go,” she biddeth, and I go—
“Come,” and I am fain to come—
Never mercy doth she show,
Be she wroth or frolicsome,
Yet am I content to be
Slave to Mistress Sans-Merci!
Little Mistress Sans-Merci
Hath become so dear to me
That I count as passing sweet
All the pain her moods impart,
And I bless the little feet
That go trampling on my heart:
Ah, how lonely life would be
But for little Sans-Merci!
Hath become so dear to me
That I count as passing sweet
All the pain her moods impart,
And I bless the little feet
That go trampling on my heart:
Ah, how lonely life would be
But for little Sans-Merci!
LONG AGO
I ONCE knew all the birds that came
And nested in our orchard trees,
For every flower I had a name—
My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;
I knew where thrived in yonder glen
What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe—
Oh, I was very learned then,
But that was very long ago.
And nested in our orchard trees,
For every flower I had a name—
My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;
I knew where thrived in yonder glen
What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe—
Oh, I was very learned then,
But that was very long ago.
I knew the spot upon the hill
Where checkerberries could be found,
I knew the rushes near the mill
Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound!
I knew the wood—the very tree
Where lived the poaching, saucy crow,
And all the woods and crows knew me—
But that was very long ago.
Where checkerberries could be found,
I knew the rushes near the mill
Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound!
I knew the wood—the very tree
Where lived the poaching, saucy crow,
And all the woods and crows knew me—
But that was very long ago.
And pining for the joys of youth,
I tread the old familiar spot
Only to learn this solemn truth:
I have forgotten, am forgot.
Yet here’s this youngster at my knee
Knows all the things I used to know;
To think I once was wise as he!—
But that was very long ago.
I tread the old familiar spot
Only to learn this solemn truth:
I have forgotten, am forgot.
Yet here’s this youngster at my knee
Knows all the things I used to know;
To think I once was wise as he!—
But that was very long ago.
IN THE FIRELIGHT
THE fire upon the hearth is low,
And there is stillness everywhere,
And, like wing’d spirits, here and there
The firelight shadows fluttering go.
And as the shadows round me creep,
A childish treble breaks the gloom,
And softly from a further room
Comes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.”
And there is stillness everywhere,
And, like wing’d spirits, here and there
The firelight shadows fluttering go.
And as the shadows round me creep,
A childish treble breaks the gloom,
And softly from a further room
Comes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.”
COBBLER AND STORK
Cobbler.
Stork, I am justly wroth,
For thou hast wronged me sore;
The ash roof-tree that shelters thee
Shall shelter thee no more!
For thou hast wronged me sore;
The ash roof-tree that shelters thee
Shall shelter thee no more!
Stork.
Cobbler.
Thou tellest of the time
When, wheeling from the west,
This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’st
Unto a mother’s breast.
I was the wretched child
Was fetched that dismal morn—
’Twere better die than be (as I)
To life of misery born!
And hadst thou borne me on
Still farther up the town,
A king I’d be of high degree,
And wear a golden crown!
For yonder lives the prince
Was brought that selfsame day:
How happy he, while—look at me!
I toil my life away!
And see my little boy—
To what estate he’s born!
Why, when I die no hoard leave I
But poverty and scorn.
And thou hast done it all—
I might have been a king
And ruled in state, but for thy hate,
Thou base, perfidious thing!
When, wheeling from the west,
This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’st
Unto a mother’s breast.
I was the wretched child
Was fetched that dismal morn—
’Twere better die than be (as I)
To life of misery born!
And hadst thou borne me on
Still farther up the town,
A king I’d be of high degree,
And wear a golden crown!
For yonder lives the prince
Was brought that selfsame day:
How happy he, while—look at me!
I toil my life away!
And see my little boy—
To what estate he’s born!
Why, when I die no hoard leave I
But poverty and scorn.
And thou hast done it all—
I might have been a king
And ruled in state, but for thy hate,
Thou base, perfidious thing!
Stork.
Since, cobbler, thou dost speak
Of one thou lovest well,
Hear of that king what grievous thing
This very morn befell.
Whilst round thy homely bench
Thy well-belovéd played,
In yonder hall beneath a pall
A little one was laid;
Thy well-belovéd’s face
Was rosy with delight,
But ’neath that pall in yonder hall
The little face is white;
Whilst by a merry voice
Thy soul is filled with cheer,
Another weeps for one that sleeps
All mute and cold anear;
One father hath his hope,
And one is childless now;
He wears a crown and rules a town—
Only a cobbler thou!
Wouldst thou exchange thy lot
At price of such a woe?
I’ll nest no more above thy door,
But, as thou bidst me, go.
Of one thou lovest well,
Hear of that king what grievous thing
This very morn befell.
Whilst round thy homely bench
Thy well-belovéd played,
In yonder hall beneath a pall
A little one was laid;
Thy well-belovéd’s face
Was rosy with delight,
But ’neath that pall in yonder hall
The little face is white;
Whilst by a merry voice
Thy soul is filled with cheer,
Another weeps for one that sleeps
All mute and cold anear;
One father hath his hope,
And one is childless now;
He wears a crown and rules a town—
Only a cobbler thou!
Wouldst thou exchange thy lot
At price of such a woe?
I’ll nest no more above thy door,
But, as thou bidst me, go.
Cobbler.