Bow, wow, wow, whose dog art tho?
I'm Tom Tinker's dog, and I'll bite you.

There was an Old Man of Leghorn,
The smallest as ever was born;
But quickly snapt up he
Was once by a puppy,
Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn.

The cat sat asleep by the side of the fire,
  The mistress snored loud as a pig;
Jack took up his fiddle by doggy's desire,
  And struck up a bit of a jig.

Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,
  Beggars are coming to town;
Some in jags, some in rags,
  And some in velvet gown.

Poor dog Bright
Ran off with all his might,
Because the cat was after him:
Poor dog Bright.

I had a little dog, and his name was Blue Bell,
I gave him some work, and he did it very well;
I sent him up stairs to pick up a pin,
He stepped into the coal-scuttle up to the chin;
I sent him to the garden to pick some sage,
He tumbled down and fell in a rage;
I sent him to the cellar to draw a pot of beer,
He came up again and said there was none there.

I had a little Dog, and they called him buff,
I sent him to the shop for a hap'orth of snuff;
But he lost the bag and spilled the snuff.
So take that cuff, and that's enough.

Ding, dong, darrow,
The cat and the sparrow;
The little dog has burnt his tail,
And he shall be hang'd to-morrow.

Thievish dog Fan, to yell aloud began,
She burnt her mouth through stealing tripe:
Thievish dog Fan.

Old Tray and rough Growler are having a fight,
  So let us get out of their way;
They snarl, and they growl, and they bite,
  Oh dear, what a terrible fray!

I will not hurt my little dog,
  But stroke and pat his head;
I like to see him wag his tail,
  I like to see him fed.

Poor little thing, how very good,
  And very useful too.
For don't you know that he will mind
  What he is bid to do?

Then I will never hurt my dog,
  Nor ever give him pain;
But treat him kindly every day,
  And he'll love me again.

Our Pussy she is white,
  Our Rover he is black,
And yet he licks Pussy's face
  While she stands on his back.

Our Pussy she is little,
  Our Rover he is big,
And yet he likes the Pussy
  Much better than the pig.

Our Pussy she is young,
  And Rover he is old,
And yet he likes the Pussy
  More than tons of gold.

Our Pussy she is good,
  And so is Rover too,
So Pussy says, "Ta, ta." "Good-bye,"
  And Rover says "Adieu."

Foolish Edward runs away,
  From the large dog with the bone;
If we do not tease or chide,
  Dogs will leave us quite alone.

No, naughty Growler, get away,
  You shall not have a bit;
Now when I speak, how dare you stay?
I can't spare any, Sir, I say,
  And so you need not sit.

Poor Growler! do not make him go,
  But recollect, before,
That he has never served you so,
For you have given him many a blow,
  That patiently he bore.

Poor growler! if he could but speak,
  He'd tell (as well as he might)
How he would bear with many a freak,
And wag his tail, and look so meek,
  And neither bark nor bite.

Upon his back he lets you ride,
  All round and round the yard;
And now, while sitting by your side,
To have a bit of bread denied,
  Is really very hard.

And all your little tricks he'll bear,
  And never seem to mind;
And yet you say you cannot spare
One bit of breakfast for his share,
  Although he is so kind.

Good Dog Tray
  Watched Tommy t'other day,
In the garden fast asleep:
  Good Dog Tray.

See, here is poor old Tray;
  Good dog to run so fast,
To meet my sister May and me,
  Now school is o'er at last.

Oh! how I love you, Tray,
  You are so kind to me;
You run beside me in my walks,
  You sit by me at tea.

'Tis true that I give you bits
  Of cake and bread and meat;
But I'm sure you'd love as well
  If you had nought to eat.

For faithful, true, and kind
  Is our old darling Tray;
He guards our dwelling all the night,
  And plays with us by day.

"Come hither, little puppy dog,
I'll give you a nice new collar,
If you will learn to read your book
And be a clever scholar."

"No, no!" replied the puppy dog,
"I've other fish to fry,
"For I must learn to guard your house,
And bark when thieves come nigh."

O'Grady lived in shanty row,
  The neighbours often said
They wished that Tim would move away
  Or that his goat was dead.
He kept the neighbourhood in fear,
  And the children always vexed;
They couldn't tell jist whin or where
  The goat would pop up nexht.

Ould Missis Casey stood wan day
  The dirty clothes to rub
Upon the washboard, when she dived
  Head foremost o'er the tub;
She lit upon her back an' yelled,
  As she was lying flat:
"Go git your goon an' kill the bashte."
  O'Grady's goat did that.

Pat Doolan's woife hung out the wash,
  Upon the line to dry.
She wint to take it in at night,
  But stopped to have a cry.
The sleeves av two red flannel shirts,
  Tat once was worn by Pat,
Were chewed off almost to the neck.
  O'Grady's goat doon that.

They had a party at McCune's,
  And they were having foon,
Whin suddinly there was a crash
  An' ivrybody roon.
The iseter soup fell on the floor
  An' nearly drowned the cat;
The stove was knocked to smithereens.
  O'Grady's goat doon that.

O'Hoolerhan brought home a keg
  Ave dannymite wan day
To blow a cistern in his yard
  An' hid the stuff away.
But suddinly an airthquake coom,
  O'Hoolerhan, house an' hat,
And ivrything in sight wint up,
  O'Grady's goat doon that.

                Will S. Hays

A little story with a moral
For the young folks who are prone to quarrel.
Old folks are wise, and do not need it,
Of course they, therefore, will not read it.

A vicious goat, one day, had found
His way into forbidden ground
When coming to the garden-swing,
He spied a most prodigious thing,—
A ram, a monster, to his mind,
With head before and head behind!

Its shape was odd—no hoofs were seen,
But, without legs, it stood between
Two uprights, lofty posts of oak,
With forehead ready for a stroke.

Though but a harmless ornament
Carved of the seat, it seemed intent
On barring the intruder's way;
While he, advancing, seemed to say,
"Who is this surly fellow here,
Two heads, no tail—it's mighty queer!
A most insulting countenance!"

With stamp of foot and angry glance
He curbed he threatening neck and stood
Before the passive thing of wood.
"You winked as I was going by!
You did not? What! tell me I lie?
Take that!" And at the swing he sprung.

A sounding thump! It backward swung,
And set in motion by the blow,
Swayed menacingly to and fro.
"Ha! you will fight! A quarrelsome chap,
I knew you were! You'll get a rap!
I'll crack your skull!" A headlong jump;
Another and a louder bump!

The swing, as with kindling wrath,
Came rushing back along the path.
The goat, astonished, shook his head,
Winked hard, turned round, grew mad, and said,
"Villain! I'll teach you who I am!"
(Or seemed to say,)—"you rascal ram,
To pick a fight with me, when I
So quietly am passing by!
Your head or mine!" A thundering stroke—
The cracking horns met crashing oak!

Then came a dull and muffled sound,
And something rolled along the ground,
Got up, looked sad—appeared to say,
"Your head's too hard!"—and limped away
Quite humbly, in a rumpled coat—
A dustier and a wiser goat!

                J. T. Throwbridge

Master Jacko, you see,
  Had a very snug home,
With plenty to eat
  That was wholesome and good;
But still he did not,
  We are sorry to say,
Behave in a way
  That a pet monkey should.

For one day he said,
  "Come, I don't like at all
The life that I lead,
  And I cannot see why
I should not live just
  As my own master does;
This chain is not strong,
  Can I break it? I'll try."

After some little time
  Jacko snapped it in two;
Said he to himself,
  "Well, now where shall I go?
To the larder, I think;
  For my appetite's good,
And I'm sure to find
  Something to eat there, I know."

He entered, and as he
  Was looking about
A lobster just brought
  From the shop seized his tail,
And pinched him, and nipped him,
  Until our young friend
Jumped about, and set up
  A most piteous wail.

Next he went to the kitchen,
  And there he espied
A bottle of something—
  "Ha, ha, I must taste!"
But he found it was curry,
  Which burnt his poor throat,
So he let drop the bottle,
  And he ran off in haste.

To the dining-room the
  He repaired, and he said,
"Into master's tea-pot
  The hot water I'll pour;"
But he upset the kettle,
  And scalded himself,
And loudly screamed out
  As he rolled on the floor.

Quoth Jacko, "the house
  Doesn't suit me at all,
I had better go back
  To the garden again,
And gather some peaches,
  Or grapes, or some plums,
And try to forget
  All my trouble and pain."

In the corner the rogue
  Saw a bee-hive—"Why, here
Must be honey! Delicious!"
  Said he; "Just the thing!"
So he put in his hand,
  But he brought out the bees,
And they punished poor Jacko
  With many a sting.

Pinched, scalded, and stung,
  To his home he returned.
Reasoned he, "My past folly
  I shall not regret;
For I'm sure the misfortunes
  I've gone through to-day
Have taught me a lesson
  I ne'er shall forget."

A little monkey,
  Dusky, ugly, sad,
Sat hopeless, curled
  Within his narrow cage;
Dark was the stifling room,
  No joy he had;
The sick air rang
  With tones of pain and rage.

From many a prisoned
  Creature held for sale,
Stolen from the happy
  Freedom of its life:
Dull drooping birds,
  That uttered shriek and wail,
And beast and reptile
  Full of woe and strife.

Into the place
  A cheerful presence came,
And kind eyes lighted
  On the monkey small;
Straightway the weary
  World was not the same
Such fortune did
  The little thing befall.

Safe in a basket
  Fastened, he was sent
Across the city,
  Trembling and afraid.
But once he saw his new home,
  What sweet content
Was his, while petted
  And caressed, he played.

A week of bliss,
  Alas! that it should end!
He had forgotten
  Darkness, pain, and all;
But there were monkeys
  Finer than our friend,
His master's eyes
  On such a one must fall!

So fate had ordered,
  And the frisky sprite,
Dun-coloured, grey,
  And streaked with cinnamon,
Born in far bright Brazil,
  Was bought at sight,
And all the first
  Poor pet's fortune won.

They brought into
  The bright and cheerful room
The basket small
  In which he had been borne
To such a happy life.
  He saw his doom
At once, the misery
  Of his lot forlorn.

The moment that
  The basket met his sight,
He dropped his head,
  And hid his sorrowing eyes
Against his arm,
  Nor looked to left nor right,
As any thinking
  Human creature wise.

They took him back
  Into his noisome den,
His tiny face
  Concealed as if he wept,
So helpless to resist.
  Heroic men
Might such despairing
  Patient calm have kept.

Poor little thing!
  And if he lingers yet,
Or death has ended
  Life so hard to bear
I know not;
  But I never can forget
His brief rejoicing
  And his mute despair.

  The horse, the brave.
  The gallant Horse—
Fit theme for the minstrel's song!
  He hath good claim
  To praise and fame;
As the fleet, the kind, the strong.

  Behold him free
  In his native strength,
Looking fit for the sun-god's car;
  With a skin as sleek
  As a maiden's cheek,
And an eye like a Polar star.

  Who wonders not
  Such limbs can deign
To brook the fettering firth;
  As we see him fly
  The ringing plain,
And paw the crumbling earth?

  His nostrils are wide
  With snorting pride,
His fiery veins expand;
  And yet he'll be led
  With s silken thread,
Or soothed by and infant's hand.

  He owns the lion's
  Spirit and might,
But the voice he has learnt to love
  Needs only be heard,
  And he'll turn to the word,
As gentle as a dove.

  The Arab is wise
  Who learns to prize
His barb before all gold;
  But us his barb
  More fair than ours,
More generous, fast or bold?

  A song for the steed,
  The gallant steed—
Oh! grant him a leaf of bay;
  For we owe much more
  To his strength and speed,
Than man can ever repay.

  Whatever his place—
  The yoke, the chase,
The war-field, road, or course,
  One of Creation's
  Brightest and best
Is the Horse, the noble Horse!

                Eliza Cook

I've a tale to relate.
  Such a wonderful tale
That really I fear
  My description must fail;
'Tis about a fine horse
  Who had powers so amazing.
He lived without eating,
  Or drinking, or grazing;
In fact this fine horse
  Was so "awfully" clever.
That left to himself
  He'd have lived on forever.

He stood in a room,
  With his nose in the air,
And his wide staring eyes
  Looking no one knows where.
His tail undisturbed
  By the sting of a fly
One foot slightly raised
  As if kicking he'd try,
This wonderful horse
  Never slept or yet dozed,
At least if he did so,
  His eyes never closed.

"Come, gee up, old Dobbin.
  Look sharp, don't you see
I want to be there
  And get back before tea?"
But this obstinate horse
  Never offered to prance,
Or made an attempt
  At the slightest advance;
Harry slashed him so hard.
  That he slashed off one ear,
Then his mane tumbled off,
  And poor Dobbin looked queer.

With spur, and with whip,
  And with terrible blows,
He soon was deprived
  Of one eye, and his nose,
While his slightly-raised foot
  Found a place on the floor.
The tail once so handsome
  Was handsome no more,
And Harry, the tears
  Raining down as he stood,
Cried, "Bother the horse,
  It is nothing but wood!"

Oh, Brownie, our pony,
  A gallant young steed,
Will carry us gaily
  O'er hill, dale, and mead.

So sure is his foot,
  And so steady his eye.
That even our baby
  To mount him might try.

We haste to his stable
  To see him each day,
And feed him with oats
  And the sweetest of hay.

We pat his rough coat,
  And we deck him with flowers,
Oh, never was seen
  Such a pony as ours.

No one deserves to have a horse
  Who takes delight to beat him:
The wise will choose a better course,
  And very kindly treat him.

If ever it should be my lot—
  To have, for use or pleasure,
One who could safely walk or trot
  The horse would be a treasure.

He soon would learn my voice to know
  And I would gladly lead him;
And should he to the stable go,
  I'd keep him clean and feed him.

I'd teach my horse a steady pace.
  Because, if he should stumble
Upon a rough or stony place,
  We might both have a tumble.

Should he grow aged, I would still
  My poor old servant cherish;
I could not see him weak or ill,
  And leave my horse to perish.

For should he get too weak to be
  My servant any longer,
I'll send him out to grass quite free,
  And get another stronger.

Oh! thank you, good Dobbin,
  You've been a long track,
And have carried papa
  All the way on your back;
You shall have some nice oats,
  Faithful Dobbin, indeed,
For you've brought papa home
  To his darling with speed.

The howling wind blew,
  And the pelting rain beat,
And the thick mud has covered
  His legs and his feet,
But yet on he galloped
  In spite of the rain,
And has brought papa home,
  To his darling again.

The sun it was setting
  A long while ago,
And papa could not see
  The road where he should go,
But Dobbin kept on
  Through the desolate wild,
And has brought papa home
  Again safe to his child.

Now go to the stable,
  The night is so raw,
Go, Dobbin, and rest
  Your old bones on the straw:
Don't stand any longer
  Out here in the rain,
For you've brought papa home
  To his darling again.

Up the hill, whip me not;
Down the hill, hurry me not;
In the stable, forget me not;
Of hay and corn, rob me not;
With sponge and brush, neglect me not;
Of soft, dry bed, deprive me not;
If sick or cold, chill me not;
With bit and reins, oh! jerk me not;
And when you are angry, strike me not.

'Tis Sabbath-day, the poor man walks
  Blithe from his cottage door,
And to his parting young ones talks
  As they skip on before.

The father is a man of joy,
  From his week's toil released;
And jocund is each little boy
  To see his father pleased.

But, looking to a field at hand,
  Where the grass grows rich and high,
A no less merry Sabbath band
  Of horses met my eye.

Poor skinny beasts, that go all week
  With loads of earth and stones,
Bearing, with aspect dull and meek,
  Hard work, and cudgel'd bones.

But now let loose to roam athwart
  The farmer's clover-lea
With whisking tails, and jump and snort,
  They speak a clumsy glee.

Lolling across each other's necks,
  Some look like brother's dear;
Other's are full of flings and kicks—
  Antics uncouth and queer.

And hast thou sealed my doom, sweet master, say?
  And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray;
  A little longer hobble round the door.

For much it glads me to behold this place—
  And house me in this hospitable shed;
It glads me more to see mu master's face,
  And linger on the spot where I was bred.

For oh! to think of what we have enjoyed,
  In my life's prime, e'er I was old and poor!
Then from the jocund morn to eve employed,
  My gracious master on my back I bore.

Thrice ten years have danced on down along,
  Since first to thee these way-born limbs I gave;
Sweet smiling years! When both of was were young—
  The kindest master and the happiest slave.

Ah! years sweet smiling, now for ever flown,
  Ten years, thrice fold, alas! are as a day.
Yet as together we are aged grown,
  Together let us wear that age away.

And hast thou fixed my doom, sweet master, say?
  And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray,
  A little longer hobble round thy door.

But oh! Kind Nature, take thy victim's life!
  And thou a servant feeble, old, and poor;
So shalt thou save me from the uplifted knife,
  And gently stretch me at my master's door.

Come, my beauty; come, my dessert darling!
  On my shoulder lay thy glossy head!
Fear not, though the barley sack be empty,
  Here's half of Hassan's scanty bread.

Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty!
  And thou knowest my water skin is free;
Drink and be welcome, for the wells are distant,
  And my strength and safety lie in thee.

Bend thy forehead, now, to take my kisses!
  Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye;
Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle—
  Thou art proud he owns thee; so am I.

Let the Sultan bring his broadest horses,
  Prancing with their diamond-studded reins;
They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness,
  When they course with thee the desert plains.

We have seen Damascus, O my beauty!
  And the splendour of the pachas there;
What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not
  Take them for a handful of they hair.

Pity the sorrows of a poor cab horse,
  Whose jaded limbs have many a mile to go.
Whose weary days are drawing to a close,
  And but in death will he a rest e'er know.

When the cold winds of dreary winter rage,
  And snow and hail come down in blinding sheet,
And people refuge see 'neath roof or arch,
  The cab-horse stands unsheltered in the street.

Though worn and weary with useful life,
  In patient service to his master—man;
No fair retirement waits his failing years,
  He yet must do the utmost work he can.

His legs are stiff, his shoulders rubbed and sore,
  His knees are broken and his sight is dim,
But no physician comes his wounds to heal,
  The lash is all the cure that's given him.

Ye kindly hearts that spare the whip, and stroke,
  Just now and then, with kindly hand, his mane;
Or pat his sides, or give a pleasant word,
  Your tender-heartedness is not in vain.

He has not many friends to plead his cause;
  He has not speech his own wrongs to outpour.
Pity the sorrows of a poor cab-horse;
  Give him relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

Home from his journey Farmer John
  Arrived this morning safe and sound,
His black coat off, and his old clothes on:
"Now I'm myself," says Farmer John.
  And he thinks, "I'll look around!"
Up leaps the dog: "Get down, you pup,
  Are you so glad you would eat me up?"
The old cow lows at the gate to greet him.
  The horses prick up their ears, to meet him.
    Well, well, old Bay!
    Ha, ha, old Grey!
Do you get good food when I'm away?"

"You haven't a rib!" says Farmer John:
"The cattle are looking round and sleek;
The colt is going to be a roan,
And a beauty too, how he has grown!
  We'll wean the calf, next week."
Says Farmer John, when I've been off,
To call you again about the trough,
And watch you, and pet you, while you drink,
Is a greater comfort than you can think."
    And he pats old Bay,
    And he slaps old Grey;
"Ah, this is the comfort of going away."

"For after all," says Farmer John,
"The best of the journey is getting home!
"I've seen great sights, but would I give
This spot, and the peaceful life I live,
  For all their Paris and Rome?
These hills for the City's stifled air,
And big hotels, all bustle and glare,
Lands all horses, and roads all stones,
That deafen your ears and batter your bones,
    Would you, old Bay?
    Would you, old Grey?
That's what one gets by going away."

"I've found out this," says Farmer John,
"That happiness is not bought and sold
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,
In nights of pleasure and days of worry,
  And wealth isn't all in gold,
Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent.,
But in simple ways of sweet content.
Few wants pure hopes, and noble ends,
Some land to till and a few good friends,
    Like you, old Bay,
    And you, old Grey,
That's what I've learned by going away.

And a happy man is Farmer John,
  Oh! a rich and happy man is he;
He sees the peas and pumpkins growing,
The corn in tassel, and buckwheat blowing;
  And fruit on vine and tree.
The large kind oxen look their thanks,
As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks,
The doves light round him, and strut and coo;
Says Farmer John: "I'll take you too,
    And you, old Bay,
    And you, old Grey,
The next time I travel so far away."

A horse, long us'd to bit and bridle,
But always much disposed to idle,
Had often wished that he was able
To steal unnotic'd from the stable.

He panted from his utmost soul,
To be at nobody's control;
Go his own pace, slower or faster.
In short, do nothing—like his master.

But yet he ne'er had got at large,
If Jack (who had him in his charge)
Had not, as many have before,
Forgot to shut the stable door.

Dobbin, with expectation swelling,
Now rose to quit he present dwelling,
But first peep'd out with cautious fear,
T' examine if the coast was clear.

At length he ventured from his station,
And with extreme self-approbation,
As if delivered from a load,
He gallop'd to the public road.

And here he stood awhile debating,
(Till he was almost tired of waiting)
Which way he'd please to bend his course,
Now there was nobody to force.

At last, unchecked by bit or rein,
He saunter'd down a pleasant lane,
And neigh'd forth many a jocund song
In triumph, as he pass'd along.

But when dark nights began t'appear,
In vain he sought some shelter near,
And well he knew he could not bear
To sleep out in the open air.

The grass felt damp and raw,
Much colder than his master's straw,
Yet on it he was forc'd to stretch,
A poor, cold, melancholy wretch.

The night was dark, the country hilly,
Poor Dobbin felt extremely chilly;
Perhaps a feeling like remorse
Just now might sting this truant horse.

As soon as day began to dawn,
Dobbin, with long and weary yawn,
Arose from this his sleepless night,
But in low spirits and bad plight.

"If this" (thought he) "is all I get,
A bed unwholesome, cold and wet,
And thus forlorn about to roam,
I think I'd better be at home."

'Twas long ere Dobbin could decide
Betwixt his wishes and his pride,
Whether to live in all this danger,
Or go back sneaking to the manger.

At last his struggling pride gave way,
To thought of savoury oats and hay
To hungry stomach, was a reason
Unanswerable at this season.

So off he set, with look profound,
Right glad that he was homeward bound;
And, trotting fast as he was able,
Soon gain'd once more his master's stable.

Now Dobbin, after his disaster,
Never again forsook his master,
Convinc'd he'd better let him mount.
Than travel on his own account.

                Jane Taylor

No wonder the Cottager
  Looks with Pride
On the well-fed donkey
  That stands at his side;
For he works, and he lives
  As hard as he,
And a creature more useful
  There cannot be.

He knows the Cottager's
  Wife and child,
And he loves to play
  With that dog so wild;
And though sometimes
  So staid and still,
He can roll in the meadow
  With right good will.

He knows the road
  To the market well,
Where garden vegetables
  He goes to sell:
And though it is hilly,
  And far, and rough,
He thinks—for a donkey,
  It's well enough.

So he trudges along,
  And little he cares
How hard he works,
  Or how ill he fares!
Content when his home
  Appears in sight,
If his kindly master
  Smiles at night.

                S. V. Dodds

Poor Donkey! I'll give him
  A handful of grass;
I'm sure he's an honest,
  Though stupid, old ass.
He trots to the market
  To carry the sack,
And lets me ride all the
  Way home on his back;
And only just stops
  By the ditch for a minute,
To see if there's any
  Fresh grass for him in it.

'Tis true, now and then
  He has got a bad trick
Of standing stock-still,
  And just trying to kick:
But then, poor old fellow!
  You know he can't tell
That standing stock-still
  Is not using me well;
For it never comes into
  His head, I dare say,
To do his work first,
  And then afterwards play.

No, no, my good donkey!
  I'll give you some grass,
For you know no better,
  Because you're an ass;
But what little donkeys
  Some children must look,
Who stand, very like you,
  Stock-still at their book,
And waste every moment
  Of time as it passes—
A great deal more stupid
  And silly than asses!

Up and down on Neddy's back,
  Taking turns they go,
Part the time with trot so fast,
  Part with pace so slow.

Little sisters side by side,
Sharing each the fun and ride.
Neddy thinks, "it can't hurt me,
But gives the children fun, you see."
And so he lends himself that they
May happy be this pleasant day.

Old Jack was as sleek
  And well looking an ass
As ever on common
  Munched thistle or grass;
And—though 'twas not gaudy,
  That jacket of brown—
Was the pet of the young
  And the pride of the town.

And indeed he might well
  Look so comely and trim,
When his young master, Joe,
  Was so gentle to him;
For never did child
  More affection beget
Than was felt by young Joe
  For his four-footed pet.

Joe groomed him and fed him,
  And, each market day,
Would talk to his darling
  The whole of the way;
And Jack before dawn
  Would be pushing the door,
As though he would say,
  "Up Joe; slumber no more."

One day Jack was wandering
  Along the roadside,
When an urchin the donkey
  Maliciously eyed;
And aiming too surely
  At Jack a sharp stone,
It struck the poor beast
  Just below the shin bone.

Joe soothed and caressed him
  And coaxed him until
They came to a stream
  By the side of the hill;
And with cool water
  He washed the swoll'n limb,
And after this fashion
  Kept talking to him:—

"Poor Jack did they pelt him—
  The cowards, so sly!
I wish I'd been there,
  With my stick, standing by:
It doesn't bleed now—
  'Twill be well in a trice;
There, let me just wash it—
  Now isn't that nice?"

And Jack nestled down
  With his soft velvet nose,
And close as he could,
  Under Joe's ragged clothes;
And he looked at his master,
  As though he would say—
"I'm sure I can never
  Your kindness repay."

                S. W. P.

"Please, Mr Donkey, Sing a song,"
  A black-bird said, one day.
The don-key o-pened wide his mouth,
  The black-bird flew a-way.

The Ass, when treated well by man,
To pleas him will do all he can;
But if his master uses him ill,
He will not work, but stand stock-still,

To market he will carry peas,
And coals, or any thing you please;
He is not over-nice with meat,
For thorns and thistles he will eat.

He drinks no water but what's clean;
His nose he puts not in the stream;
His feet he does not like to wet,
But out of dirty roads will get.

Down in this ditch poor donkey lies,
  Who jogg'd with many a load;
And till the day death clos'd his eyes,
  Brows'd up and down this road.

No shelter had he for his head,
  Whatever winds might blow;
A neighb'ring commons was his bed,
  Tho' drest in sheets of snow.

In this green ditch he often stray'd
  To nip the dainty grass;
And friendly invitations bray'd
  To some more hungry ass.

Each market-day he jogg'd along
  Beneath the gard'ner's load,
And snor'd out many a donkey's song
  To friends upon the road.

A tuft of grass, a thistle green,
  Or cabbage-leaf so sweet,
Were all the dainties, he was seen
  For twenty years to eat.

And as for sport, the sober soul
  Was such a steady Jack,
He only now and then would roll,
  Heels upward, on his back.

But all his sport, and dainties too,
  And labours now are o'er.
Last night so bleak a tempest blew,
  He could withstand no more.

He felt his feeble limbs grow cold,
  His blood was freezing slow,
And presently you might behold
  Him dead upon the snow.

Poor donkey! travellers passing by,
  Thy cold remains shall view;
And 'twould be well if all who die
  To duty were as true.

                Anne Taylor

Beside a green meadow
  A stream us'd to flow,
So clear one might see
  The white pebbles below;
To this cooling brook
  The warm cattle would stray,
To stand in the shade,
  On a hot summer's day.

A cow, quite oppress'd
  With the heat of the sun,
Came here to refresh
  As she often had done,
And standing quite still,
  Leaning over the stream,
Was musing, perhaps;
  Or perhaps she might dream.

But soon a brown ass,
  Of respectable look
Came trotting up also,
  To taste of the brook,
And to nibble a few
  Of the daisies and grass.
"How d'ye do?" said the cow:
  "How d'ye do?" said the ass.

"Take a seat," cried the cow,
  Gently waving her hand.
"By no means, dear madam,"
  Said he, "while you stand."
Then stooping to drink,
  With a complaisant bow,
"Ma'am, your health." said the ass;
  "Thank you, sir," said the cow.

When a few of these compliments
  More had been pass'd,
They laid themselves down
  On the herbage at last;
And waited politely
  (As gentlemen must),
The ass held his tongue,
  That the cow might speak first.

Then, with a deep sigh,
  She directly began,
"Don't you think, Mr. Ass,
  We are injured by man?
'Tis a subject that lies
  With a weight on my mind:
We certainly are much
  Oppress'd by mankind.

"Now what is the reason
  (I see none at all)
That I always must go
  When Suke pleases to call?
Whatever I'm doing
  ('Tis certainly hard),
I'm forc'd to leave off
  To be milked in the yard.

"I've no will of my own,
  But must do as they please,
And give them my milk
  To make butter and cheese;
I've often a great mind
  To kick down the pail,
Or give Suke a box
  On the ears with my tail."

"But ma'am," said the ass,
  "Not presuming to teach—
O dear, I beg pardon—
  Pray finish your speech;
I thought you had finish'd,
  Indeed," said the swain,
"Go on, and I'll not
  Interrupt you again."

"Why, sir, I was only
  Just going to observe,
I'm resolved that these tyrants
  No longer I'll serve;
But leave them for ever
  To do as they please,
And look somewhere else
  For their butter and cheese."

Ass waited a moment,
  To see if she'd done,
And then, "Not presuming
  To teach," he begun.
"With submission, dear madam,
  To your better wit,
I own I am not quite
  Convinced by it yet.

"That you're of great service
  To them is quite true,
But surely they are
  Of some service to you.
'Tis their pleasant meadow
  In which you regale;
They feed you in winter,
  When grass and weeds fail.

"And then a warm cover
  They always provide,
Dear madam, to shelter
  Your delicate hide,
For my own part, I know
  I receive much from man,
And for him, in return,
  I do all I can."

The cow, upon this,
  Cast her eyes on the grass,
Not pleas'd at thus being
  Reproved by an ass,
Yet, thought she, "I'm determined
  I'll benefit by't,
For I really believe
  That the fellow is right."

                Jane Taylor

Come, children, listen to me now,
And you will hear about the cow;
You'll find her useful, alive or dead,
Whether she's black, or white, or red.

When milkmaids milk her morn and night
She gives them milk so fresh and white,
And this we, little children, think
Is very nice for us to drink.

The curdled milk they press and squeeze,
And so they make it into cheese;
The cream they skim and shake in churns,
And then it soon to butter turns.

And when she's dead, her flesh is good,
For beef is a very wholesome food,
But though 'twill make us brave and strong,
To eat too much, you know, is wrong.

Her skin, with lime and bark together,
The tanner tans, and makes into leather,
And without that, what should we do
For soles of every boot and shoe?

The shoemaker cuts it with his knife
And bound the tops are by his wife;
And so they nail them to the last,
And then they stitch them tight and fast.

The hair that grows upon her back
Is taken, whether white or black,
And mix'd with plaster, short or long,
Which makes it very firm and strong.

And, last of all, if cut with care,
Her horns make combs to comb our hair;
And so we learn—thanks to our teachers—
That cows are very useful creatures.

  "Mooly cow, mooly cow,
    Home from the wood
  They sent me to fetch you
    As fast as I could.
  The sun has gone down—
    It is time to go home,
  Mooly cow, mooly cow,
    Why don't you come?
  Your udders are full,
    And the milkmaid is there,
  And the children are all waiting,
    Their suppers to share.
  I have let the long bars down—
    Why don't you pass thro'"
The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

  "Mooly cow, mooly cow,
    Have you not been
  Regaling all day
    Where the pastures are green?
  No doubt it was pleasant,
    Dear Mooly, to see
  The clear running brook
    And the wide-spreading tree,
  The clover to crop,
    And the streamlet to wade,
  To drink the cool water
    And lie in the shade;
  But now it is night—
    They are waiting for you."
The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

  "Mooly cow, mooly cow,
    Where do you go
  When all the green pastures
    Are covered in with snow?
  You can go to the barn,
    And we feed you with hay,
  And the maid goes to milk
    You there, every day;
  She pats you, she loves you,
    She strokes your sleek hide,
  She speaks to you kindly,
    And sits by your side:
  Then come along home,
    Pretty Mooly cow, do."
The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

  "Mooly cow, mooly cow,
    Whisking your tail
  The milkmaid is waiting,
    I say, with her pail;
  She tucks up her petticoats,
    Tidy and neat,
  And places the three-legged
    Stool for her seat.
  What can you be staring at,
    Mooly? You know
  That we ought to have gone
    Home an hour ago.
  How dark it is growing!
    O, what shall I do?"
The mooly cow only said, "Moo-o-o!"

To the yard, by the barn,
Came the farmer one morn,
  And calling the cattle, he said,
While they trembled with fright:
"Now which of you, last night,
  Shut the barn door while I was abed?"
  Each one of them all shook his head.

Now the little calf Spot,
She was down in the lot,
  And the way the rest talked was a shame;
For no one, night before,
Saw her shut up the door;
  But they said that she did, all the same,
  For they always made her take the blame.

Said the horse (dapple gray),
"I was not up that way
  Last night, as I recollect;"
And the bull, passing by,
Tossed his horns very high,
  And said, "Let who may be here object,
  I say this, that calf I suspect.

Then out spoke the cow,
"It is terrible now,
  To accuse honest folks of such tricks."
Said the cock in the tree,
"I'm sure 'twasn't me;"
  And the sheep all cried, "Bah! (there were six)
  Now that calf's got herself in a fix."

"Why, of course we all knew
'Twas the wrong thing to do,"
  Said the chickens. "Of course," said the cat.
"I suppose," cried the mule,
Some folks think me a fool,
  But I'm not quite as simple as that;
  The poor calf never knows what she's at."

Just that moment, the calf,
Who was always the laugh
  And the jest of the yard, came in sight.
"Did you shut my barn door?"
Asked the farmer once more,
  "I did, sir, I closed it last night,"
  Said the calf; "and I thought that was right."

Then each one shook his head,
"She will catch it," they cried,
  "Serves her right for her meddlesome ways."
Said the farmer, "Come here,
Little bossy, my dear,
  You have done what I cannot repay,
  And your fortune is made from to-day.

"For a wonder, last night,
I forgot the door quite,
  And if you had not shut it so neat,
All my colts had slipped in,
And gone right to the bin,
  And got what they ought not to eat,
  They'd have founded themselves on wheat."

The each hoof of them
All began to loudly to bawl,
  The very mule smiled, the cock crew;
"Little Spotty, my dear,
You're a favourite here,"
  They cried, "we all said it was you,
  We were so glad to give you your due."
  And the calf answered knowingly, "Boo!"

                Phoebe Cary

Storm upon the mountain,
  Rainy torrents beating,
And the little snow-white lamb,
  Bleating, ever bleating!
Storm upon the mountain,
  Night upon its throne,
And the little snow-white lamb,
  Left alone, alone!

Down the glen the shepherd
  Drives his flock afar;
Through the murky mist and cloud,
  Shines no beacon star.
Fast he hurries onward,
  Never hears the moan
Of the pretty snow-white lamb,
  Left alone, alone!

Up the glen he races,
  Breasts the bitter wind,
Scours across the plain, and leaves
  Wood and wold behind;—
Storm upon the mountain,
  Night upon its throne—
There he finds the little lamb,
  Left alone, alone!

Struggling, panting, sobbing,
  Kneeling on the ground,
Round the pretty creature's neck
  Both his arms were wound;
Soon, within his bosom,
  All its bleatings done,
Home he bears the little lamb,
  Left alone, alone!

Oh! the happy faces,
  By the shepherd's fire!
High without the tempest roars,
  But the laugh rings higher,
Young and old together
  Make that joy their own—
In their midst the little lamb,
  Left alone, alone!

                T. Westwood

The dew was falling fast,
  The stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said,
  "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And looking o'er the hedge
  Before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb,
  With a maiden by its side.

Nor sheep nor kine were near;
  The lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord
  Was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass
  Did the little maiden kneel,
While to this mountain lamb.
  She gave its evening meal.

"What ails thee, young one; what?
  Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee?
  Well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft,
  And green as grass can be;
Rest, little young one, rest;
  What is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou would'st seek?
  What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs, are they not strong?
  And beautiful thou art.
This grass is tender grass;
  These flowers they have no peers;
And that green corn all day long
  Is rustling in they ears!

"Rest little young one, rest;
  Hast thou forgot the day
Why my father found the first
  In places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills,
  But thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side
  For evermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms,
  And in pity brought thee home;
Oh! blessed day for thee!
  Then whither would'st thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast;
  The dam that did the yean
Upon the mountain top
  No kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that thrice a day
  I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook,
  As clear as ever ran.
And twice, too, in the day,
  When the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk—
  Warm milk it is, and new.

"Here, then, thou need'st not dread
  The raven in the sky;
Night and day thou'rt safe;
  Our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me?
  Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep, and at break of day,
  I will come to thee again."

                Wordsworth

Mother, let's go and see the lambs;
  This warm and sunny day
I think must make them very glad,
  And full of fun and play.

Ah, there they are. You pretty things!
  Now, don't you run away;
I'm come on purpose, that I am,
  To see you this fine day.

What pretty little heads you've got,
  And such good-natured eyes!
And ruff of wool all round your necks—
  How nicely curl'd it lies!

Come here, my little lambkin, come,
  And lick my hand—now do!
How silly to be so afraid!
  Indeed I won't hurt you.

Just put your hand upon its back,
  Mother, how nice and warm!
There, pretty lamb, you see I don't
  Intend to do you harm.

                Easy Poetry

Once on a time, a shepherd lived
  Within a cottage small;
The grey thatched roof was shaded by
  An elm-tree dark and tall;
While all around, stretched far away,
  A wild and lonesome moor,
Except a little daisied field
  Before the trellised door.

Now, it was on a cold March day,
  When on the moorland wide
The shepherd found a trembling lamb
  By its mother's side;
And so pitiful it bleated,
  As with the cold it shook,
He wrapped it up beneath his coat,
  And home the poor lamb took.

He placed it by the warm fireside,
  And then his children fed
This little lamb, whose mother died,
  With milk and sweet brown bread,
Until it ran about the floor,
  Or at the door would stand;
And grew so tame, it ate its food
  From out the children's hand.

It followed them where'er they went,
  Came ever at their call,
And dearly was this pretty lamb
  Beloved by them all.
And often on a market-day,
  When cotters crossed the moor,
They stopped to praise the snow-white lamb,
  Beside the cottage door;

They patted it upon its head,
  And stroked it with the hand,
And vowed it was the prettiest lamb
  They'd seen in all the land.

Now, this kind shepherd was as ill,
  As ill as he could be,
And kept his bed for many a week,
  And nothing earned he;
And when he had got well again,
  He to his wife did say,
"The doctor wants his money, and
  I haven't it to pay.

"What shall we do, what can we do?
  The doctor made me well,
There's only one thing can be done,
  We must the pet lamb sell;
We've nearly eaten all the bread,
  And how can we get more,
Unless you call the butcher in
  When he rides by the door?"

"Oh, do not sell my white pet lamb,"
  Then little Mary said,
"And every night I'll go up stairs
  Without my tea to bed;
Oh! do not sell my sweet pet lamb;
  And if you let it live,
The best half of my bread and milk
  I will unto it give."

The doctor at that very time
  Entered the cottage door,
As, with her arms around her lamb,
  She sat upon the floor.
"For if the butcher buys my lamb,
  He'll take away its life,
And make its pretty white throat bleed
  With his sharp cruel knife;

"And never in the morning light
  Again it will me meet,
Nor come again to lick my hand,
  Look up upon me and bleat."
"Why do you weep, my pretty girl?"
  The doctor then did say.
"Because I love my little lamb,
  Which must be sold to-day;

It lies beside my bed at night,
  And, oh, it is so still,
It never made a bit of noise
  When father was so ill.
"Oh do not let them sell my lamb,
  And then I'll go to bed,
And never ask for aught to eat

  But a small piece of bread."
"I'll buy the lamb and give it you,"
  The kind, good doctor said,
"And with the money that I pay
  Your father can buy bread.
"As for the bill, that can remain
  Until another year."
He paid the money down, and said,
  "The lamb is yours, my dear:

You have a kind and gentle heart,
  And God, who made us all,
He loveth well those who are kind
  To creatures great and small;
"And while I live, my little girl,
  Your lamb shall not be sold,
But play with you upon the moor,
  And sleep within the fold."

And so the white pet lamb was saved,
  And played upon the moor,
And after little Mary ran
  About the cottage-floor.
It fed upon cowslips tall,
  And ate the grass so sweet,
And on the little garden-walk
  Pattered its pretty feet;

And with its head upon her lap
  The little lamb would lay
Asleep beneath the elm-tree's shade,
  Upon the summer's day,
While she twined the flowers around its neck,
  And called it her, "Sweet May."

                Thomas Miller

The pig, he is a gentleman,
  And never goes to work;
He eats the very best of food
  Without knife or fork.

The pig, he is a gentleman,
  And drinks the best of milk;
His clothes are good, and thick, and strong
  And wear as well as silk.

The pig he, is a gentleman,
  And covers up his head,
And looks at you with one eye,
  And grunts beneath his bed.

He eats, and drinks, and sleeps all day
  Just like his lady mother,
His father, uncle, and his aunt,
  His sister, and his brother.

                E. W. Cole

"Do look at those pigs, as they lie in the straw,"
  Little Richard said to papa;
"They keep eating longer than ever I saw,
  What nasty fat gluttons they are!"

"I see they are feasting," his father replied,
  "They ear a great deal, I allow;
But let us remember, before we deride,
  'Tis the nature, my dear, of a sow.

"But when a great boy, such as you my dear Dick,
  Does nothing but eat all the day,
And keeps sucking good things till he makes himself sick,
  What a glutton, indeed, we may say.

"When plumcake and sugar for ever he picks,
  And sweetmeats, and comfits, and figs;
Pray let him get rid of his own nasty tricks,
  And then he may laugh at the pigs."

                J. T.

Five lit-tle fingers
And five lit-tle pigs,
  Of each I've a story to tell;
Look at their faces
And fun-ny curl-ed tails,
  And hear what each one be-fell.

Ring-tail, that stead-y
And good lit-tle pig,
  To mark-et set off at a trot;
And brought him his bas-ket
Quite full of nice things,
  Con-tent-ed and pleas-ed with his lot.

Young Smil-er, the next,
Was a stay at home pig,
  Lik-ed his pipe, and to sit at his ease;
He fell fast a-sleep,
Burned his nose with his pipe,
  And a-woke with a ve-ry loud sneeze.

Num-ber three was young Long-snout
Who ate up the beef.
  He was both greed-y and fat;
He made him-self ill
By eat-ing too much,
  And then he was sor-ry for that.

And poor lit-tle Grun-ter—
You know he had none—
  A pig-gy so hun-gry and sad!
He si-lent-ly wiped
The salt tears from his eyes,
  I think it was real-ly too bad.

Young Squeak-er cried, "Wee, wee, wee,"
All the way home,
  A pig-gy so fret-ful was he;
He got a good whip-ping,
Was sent off to bed,
  And de-served it, I think you must see.

Oh, these five lit-tle pigs,
How they've made child-ren laugh
  In ages and ages now past!
And they'll be quite as fun-ny,
In years yet to come,
  While small toes and small fing-ers last.

It happened one day,
  As the other pigs tell,
In the course of their walk
  They drew near to a well,
So wide and so deep,
  With so smooth a wall round,
That a pig tumbling in
  Was sure to be drowned.

But a perverse little brother,
  Foolish as ever,
Still boasting himself
  Very cunning and clever,
Now made up his mind
  That, whatever befell,
He would run on before
  And jump over the well.

Then away he ran fast
  To one side of the well,
Climbed up on the wall,
  Slipped, and headlong he fell;
And now from the bottom
  His pitiful shout
Was, "Oh mother! I'm in;
  Pray do help me out!"

She ran to the side
  When she heard his complaint,
And she then saw him struggling,
  Weakly and faint,
Yet no help could she give!
  But, "My children," cried she,
"How often I've feared
  A sad end his would be!"

"Oh, mother, dear mother;"
  The drowning pig cried,
"I see all this comes
  Of my folly and pride!"
He could not speak more,
  But he sank down and died,
Whilst his mother and brothers
  Wept round the well-side!