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With Trumpet and Drum

Chapter 51: BAMBINO
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About This Book

The collection gathers short poems and lullabies aimed at children and nostalgic adults, blending playful fantasy, gentle humor, and wistful melancholy. Poems range from confectionery fantasies and marching-child refrains to soothing night songs and adapted folk tunes; some pieces portray domestic scenes, toys, and bedtime reveries, while others dwell on loss and dreamy seaside imagery. Arranged as a mix of quick nursery jingles and longer narrative lyrics, the work repeatedly returns to themes of sleep, parental tenderness, imagination, and the bittersweet passage from childhood.

HUSH, little one, and fold your hands—
The sun hath set, the moon is high;
The sea is singing to the sands,
And wakeful posies are beguiled
By many a fairy lullaby—
Hush, little child—my little child!
Dream, little one, and in your dreams
Float upward from this lowly place—
Float out on mellow, misty streams
To lands where bideth Mary mild,
And let her kiss thy little face,
You little child—my little child!
Sleep, little one, and take thy rest—
With angels bending over thee,
Sleep sweetly on that Father’s breast
Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled—
But stay not there—come back to me,
Oh, little child—my little child!

GANDERFEATHER’S GIFT

I WAS just a little thing
When a fairy came and kissed me;
Floating in upon the light
Of a haunted summer night,
Lo, the fairies came to sing
Pretty slumber songs and bring
Certain boons that else had missed me.
From a dream I turned to see
What those strangers brought for me,
When that fairy up and kissed me—
Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!
Simmerdew was there, but she
Did not like me altogether;
Daisybright and Turtledove,
Pilfercurds and Honeylove,
Thistleblow and Amberglee
On that gleaming, ghostly sea

Floated from the misty heather,
And around my trundle-bed
Frisked, and looked, and whispering said—
Solemnlike and all together:
You shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!”
Ganderfeather kissed me then—
Ganderfeather, quaint and merry!
No attenuate sprite was he,
—But as buxom as could be;—
Kissed me twice, and once again,
And the others shouted when
On my cheek uprose a berry
Somewhat like a mole, mayhap,
But the kiss-mark of that chap
Ganderfeather, passing merry—
Humorsome, but kindly, very!
I was just a tiny thing
When the prankish Ganderfeather
Brought this curious gift to me
With his fairy kisses three;
Yet with honest pride I sing
That same gift he chose to bring
Out of yonder haunted heather.
Other charms and friendships fly—
Constant friends this mole and I,
Who have been so long together
Thank you, little Ganderfeather!

BAMBINO

BAMBINO in his cradle slept;
And by his side his grandam grim
Bent down and smiled upon the child,
And sung this lullaby to him,—
This “ninna and anninia”:
“When thou art older, thou shalt mind
To traverse countries far and wide,
And thou shalt go where roses blow
And balmy waters singing glide—
So ninna and anninia!
“Then shalt thou carry gun and knife,
Nor shall the soldiers bully thee;
Perchance, beset by wrong or debt,
A mighty bandit thou shalt be—
So ninna and anninia!
“No woman yet of our proud race
Lived to her fourteenth year unwed;
The brazen churl that eyed a girl
Bought her the ring or paid his head—
So ninna and anninia!
“But once came spies (I know the thieves!)
And brought disaster to our race;
God heard us when our fifteen men
Were hanged within the market-place—
But ninna and anninia!
“Good men they were, my babe, and true,—
Right worthy fellows all, and strong;
Live thou and be for them and me
Avenger of that deadly wrong—
So ninna and anninia!”

LITTLE HOMER’S SLATE

AFTER dear old grandma died,
Hunting through an oaken chest
In the attic, we espied
What repaid our childish quest;
’Twas a homely little slate,
Seemingly of ancient date.
Mother recollected then
What the years were fain to hide—
She was but a baby when
Little Homer lived and died;
Forty years, so mother said,
Little Homer had been dead.
This one secret through those years
Grandma kept from all apart,
Hallowed by her lonely tears
And the breaking of her heart;
While each year that sped away
Seemed to her but yesterday.
So the homely little slate
Grandma’s baby’s fingers pressed,
To a memory consecrate,
Lieth in the oaken chest,
Where, unwilling we should know,
Grandma put it, years ago.