Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Two thoughts
 The open air
 The year
 The country life
 Blossoms from Herrick and...
 Dogs and horses
 Compressed natural history
 Unnatural history
 Poets at play
 Old-fashioned girls
 Marjorie Fleming, poetess
 Old-fashioned boys
 Looking forward
 From "Hiawatha"
 Good fellows
 The sea and the island
 A bundle of stories
 A few remarks
 Index of authors
 Back Matter
 Back Cover

Title: A book of verses for children
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00086418/00001
 Material Information
Title: A book of verses for children
Physical Description: xii, 348, 4 p., 1 leaf of plates : ill. (some col.) ; 20 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Lucas, E. V ( Edward Verrall ), 1868-1938 ( Compiler )
Bedford, F. D ( Illustrator )
Grant Richards Ltd ( Publisher )
R. & R. Clark (Firm) ( Printer )
Publisher: Grant Richards
Place of Publication: London
Manufacturer: R. & R. Clark, Limited.
Publication Date: 1897
Subject: Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Reading   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1897   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1897
Genre: Children's poetry
poetry   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: England -- London
Scotland -- Edinburgh
Statement of Responsibility: compiled by Edward Verrall Lucas.
General Note: Title-page & end-papers illustrated in color by F.D. Bedford.
General Note: Illustrated color t.p. counted as plate.
General Note: Cover illustration of children reading.
General Note: Includes index of authors.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00086418
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002222395
notis - ALG2640
oclc - 63075894

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Half Title
        Page i
        Page ii
    Title Page
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Table of Contents
        Page v
        Page vi
        Page vii
        Page viii
        Page ix
        Page x
        Page xi
        Page xii
    Two thoughts
        Page 1
        Page 2
        Page 3
        Page 4
    The open air
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
    The year
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
    The country life
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
    Blossoms from Herrick and Blake
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
    Dogs and horses
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
    Compressed natural history
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
    Unnatural history
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
    Poets at play
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
    Old-fashioned girls
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
    Marjorie Fleming, poetess
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
    Old-fashioned boys
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
    Looking forward
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
    From "Hiawatha"
        Page 209
        Page 210
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
    Good fellows
        Page 221
        Page 222
        Page 223
        Page 224
        Page 225
        Page 226
        Page 227
        Page 228
        Page 229
        Page 230
        Page 231
        Page 232
        Page 233
        Page 234
    The sea and the island
        Page 235
        Page 236
        Page 237
        Page 238
        Page 239
        Page 240
        Page 241
        Page 242
        Page 243
        Page 244
        Page 245
        Page 246
        Page 247
        Page 248
    A bundle of stories
        Page 249
        Page 250
        Page 251
        Page 252
        Page 253
        Page 254
        Page 255
        Page 256
        Page 257
        Page 258
        Page 259
        Page 260
        Page 261
        Page 262
        Page 263
        Page 264
        Page 265
        Page 266
        Page 267
        Page 268
        Page 269
        Page 270
        Page 271
        Page 272
        Page 273
        Page 274
        Page 275
        Page 276
        Page 277
        Page 278
        Page 279
        Page 280
        Page 281
        Page 282
        Page 283
        Page 284
        Page 285
        Page 286
        Page 287
        Page 288
        Page 289
        Page 290
        Page 291
        Page 292
        Page 293
        Page 294
        Page 295
        Page 296
        Page 297
        Page 298
        Page 299
        Page 300
        Page 301
        Page 302
        Page 303
        Page 304
        Page 305
        Page 306
        Page 307
        Page 308
        Page 309
        Page 310
        Page 311
        Page 312
    A few remarks
        Page 313
        Page 314
        Page 315
        Page 316
        Page 317
        Page 318
        Page 319
        Page 320
        Page 321
        Page 322
        Page 323
        Page 324
        Page 325
        Page 326
        Page 327
        Page 328
        Page 329
        Page 330
        Page 331
        Page 332
        Page 333
        Page 334
        Page 335
        Page 336
        Page 337
        Page 338
        Page 339
        Page 340
        Page 341
        Page 342
        Page 343
        Page 344
        Page 345
        Page 346
    Index of authors
        Page 347
        Page 348
        Page 349
    Back Matter
        Page 350
        Page 351
        Page 352
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

Fidl, zy.

pg I JM! R


........ .........
. . .
am i

Nj -



.1.~~....., .::l?-:;ii;~; --;--. .;ri.*

lj Ir






First printed October 1897.
Reprinted (twice) November 1897.

A 4

0 MED l

**' J .W

1in n~

W' I



UNLESS you are very keenly set upon
reading to yourself, I think I should advise
you to ask some one to read these pieces
aloud, not too many at a time. And I
want you to understand that there is a kind
of poetry that is finer far than anything
here: poetry to which this book is, in the
old-fashioned phrase, simply a "stepping-
stone." When you feel, as I hope some
day you will feel, that these pages no
longer satisfy, then you must turn to the
better thing.
E. V. L.


Happy Thought 3
The World's Music 3


Boy's Song. 7
A Weather Rule 8
The Proets of the Hive 8
Good Tidings 8
Two Promises 9
Signs of Foul Weather 9
The Four Winds. .
The Wind in a Frolic .
Windy Nights 13


Days of Birth 17
Days of the Month 17
The Months 18
Piipa's Song 19
The First of May 19

THE YEAR, continued- Page

Oxfordshire Children's May Song 19
Child's Song in Sipring 20
Baby Seed Song 21
Two Aflple-Howling Songs 21
Mine Host of The Golden AfPile" .22
The Holly .23
A Winter Song 24
Old Winter 25
Jack Frost .26
Snow in Town .27


The Old English Christmas 3
The First Nowell. 33
A Virgin most fure .35
God rest you, merry gentlemen 37
A Song of Saint Francis 39
Santa Claus 39


The Farmer's Round 43
A Summer Evening 46
The Useful Plough 48
The Water-Mill 49
The Windmill 5
The Castle-Builder 53
John Barleycorn .54
Oxfordshire Guy Fawkes' Song 57
The Cricket Bat Sings 57
Golden Rules for the Young .58
A Hunting Song 59
A Skating Song .. 60

A Grace for a Child .63
A Ternarie of Littles, upon a Pipkin of fellie sent
to a Lady 63
His Grange; or, Private Wealth .64
Nurse's Song 65
The Shefherd 66
Infant Joy 66
Holy Thursday .67
Laughing Song 68


Answer to a Child's Question 71
A Rule for Birds' Nesters 71
Cherries 72
The Cuckoo's Habits 72
The Cuckoo's Voice 73
The Cuckoo's Character 73
The Cuckoo's Wit 74
Eagles 75
The Burial of the Linnet 76


The Perfect Greyhound 79
Old Pincher 79
Poor Old Horse 83
The Arab's Farewell to his Steed 84
The Ballad of Jenny the Mare 87
How they brought the Good News from Ghent
toAix .89
Epitafh on a Hare 91
The Tiger 93


Birds, Beasts, and Fishes 97
Kindness to Animals 00

The Spider and the Fly 03
The Cats' Tea-Party 5
Pussy-Cat .
The Last Dying Sfpeech and Confession of Poor Puss 107
The Three Little Pigs Io
Dame Duck's First Lecture on Education II
The Notorious Glutton 114
The Butterfly's Ball 16
The Owl-Critic 118

Jemima I23
A Strange Wild Song 123
Sage Counsel 125
The Elefhant 126
The Lion 126
The Frog 127
Ode to a Rhinoceros 127
An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 128
History 129
The Walrus and the Carfenter 130
The Pobble Who Has No Toes 134
The A author of the Pobble. 136
The Story of Little Suck-a-Thumb. 137
The Sad Story of a Little Boy that Cried 138
The Man in the Moon 139
A Warning 14
An Unsusfected Fact 141
The Snu/f-Boxes 142
Quite a History 142

POETS AT PLAY, continued- Page
The Wreck of the Steamshp Puffin" 144
To Henrietta, on Her Departure for Calais 149

Whole Duty of Children 153
Symon's Lesson of Wisdom for all Manner of
Children 153
The Introduction to "The Bad Child's Book of
Beasts" 155
How to Look when Speaking 156

The Wonders 159
Maria's Purse 60
How to Write a Letter. 160
Rebecca's After-Thought 161
The Worm 162
The Sash 162
The Lost Pudding 163
The Hoyden 164
The Dizzy Girl 164
The Giddy Girl 165
Ambitious Sophy. 166
Poisonous Fruit 66
Playing with Fire 167
False Alarms 168
The Vulgar Little Lady 169
Meddlesome Matty 70
Frances keeps her Promise 172

Ephibol on My Dear Love Isabella 177
Sonnet to a. Monkey 178


Going into Breeches
George and the Chimney-Sweefp
Feigned Courage .
The Superior Boys
The Lesson .
Richard's Reformation
The Cruel Boy
The Result of Cruelty
Falsehood Corrected"
The Greedy Boy
Greedy Richard
The Plum-Cake
Another Plum-Cake
The Little Fisherman
The Two Gardens
The Truant Boys
The Boys and the Affle Tree
James and the Shoulder of Mutton
The Models


The Lamplighter.
The Pedlars Caravan
A Shooting Song
The Boy Decides .


Hiawatha's Childhood .
Hiawatha's Sailing

S 187



The Jovial Cobbler of Saint Helen's
The Jovial Beggar
The Lincolnshire Poacher
The Old Courtier.
Old Grimes.
Tom Moody
A Dutch Picture.


Ye Mariners of England
The Sailor's Consolation
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea
The Crew of the Long Serfent
The Captain stood on the Carronade
The Roast Beef of Old England
The British Grenadiers
The War-song of Dinas Vawr
The Song of the Western Men


The Babes in the Wood
The Lady Isabella's Tragedy.
King Leir and His Three Daughters
King John and the Abbot of Canterbury.
The Glove and the Lions
The Fakenham Ghost .
Bishop Hatto .
The Diverting History of John Gilfin
The Pied Pizer of Hamelin .
Lochinvar .
The Mountain and the Squirrel

S 256
S 260

Lady Moon. 303
The Star 303
The White Paternoster 304
Lullaby to an Infant Chief .304
Dutch Lullaby 305
Queen Mab. .307
A Fairy Song 308
The Fairies 310

The Lost Friend 315
Old May Day 317
St. Clement's Day Rhyme 319
The Painful Plough 320
Song of Fairies robbing an Orchard 322
Once from the town a starling few" 322
Ah, dear apa, didyou but know" 326
-' There was a little girl" (Jemima) 327
Speak gently to the herring" 328
From an Elegy on Dr. Hofinann 330
From The Raggedy Man" 332
From The Birched Schoolboy" 333
My child and scholar, take good heed" 334
A Lesson for Mamma 335
.Mustard and Cress 338
Choosing a Profession 339
The Chimney-Sweeer 340
If no one ever marries me" 341
Mr. Nobody 342
The Babes in the Wood 344


Happy Thought a -

T HE world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
Robert Louis Stevenson.

The World's Music z

T HE world's a very happy place,
Where every child should dance and sing,
And always have a smiling face,
And never sulk for anything.

I waken when the morning's come,
And feel the air and light alive
With strange sweet music like the hum
Of bees about their busy hive.

The linnets play among the leaves
At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing;
While, flashing to and from the eaves,
The swallows twitter on the wing.

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway;
And tall old trees you could not climb;
And winds that come, but cannot stay,
Are gaily singing all the time.

From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel
Makes music, going round and round;
And dusty-white with flour and meal,
The miller whistles to its sound.

And if you listen to the rain
When leaves and birds and bees are dumb,
You hear it pattering on the pane
Like Andrew beating on his drum.

The coals beneath the kettle croon,
And clap their hands and dance in glee;
And even the kettle hums a tune
To tell you when it's time for tea.

The world is such a happy place,
That children, whether big or small,
Should always have a smiling face,
And never, never sulk at all.
Gabriel Setoun.


Boy's Song A a -c

W HERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.*
James Hogg.

* Two stanzas omitted.


A Weather Rule a za

F the evening's red and the morning gray,
It is the sign of a bonnie day;
If the evening's gray and the morning's red,
The lamb and the ewe will go wet to bed.
Old RhZymne.

The Prophets of the Hive -a

F bees stay at home,
Rain will soon come;
If they fly away,
Fine will be the day.
Old Rhyme.

Good Tidings 1a > a aY

Won't last half an hour.

RAIN before seven,
Fine by eleven.
Old Rhymes.

Two Promises sa sa

CANDLEMAS (February 2)
F Candlemas Day be fair and bright,
Winter will have another flight;
If on Candlemas Day it be shower and rain,
Winter is gone and will not come again.

ST. WITHIN (July I5)

S T. Swithin's Day, if thou dost rain,
For forty days it will remain;
St. Swithin's Day,. if thou be fair,
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.
Old Rhymes.

Signs of Foul Weather a

T HE hollow winds begin to blow;
The clouds look black, the glass is low;
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep;
And spiders from their cobwebs peep.
Last night the sun went pale to bed;
The moon in halos hid her head.
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,
For, see, a rainbow spans the sky.

The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel.
Hark how the chairs and tables crack,
Old Betty's joints are on the rack:
Her corns with shooting-pains torment her,
And to her bed untimely sent her.
Loud quack the ducks, the sea-fowl cry,
The distant hills are looking nigh.
How restless are the snorting swine !
The busy flies disturb the kine.
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings,
The cricket, too, how sharp he sings !
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,
Sits wiping o'er her whisker'd jaws.
The smoke from chimneys right ascends,
Then spreading, back to earth it bends.
The wind unsteady veers around,
Or settling in the South is found.
Through the clear stream the fishes rise,
And nimbly catch the incautious flies.
The glow-worms numerous, clear and bright,
Illum'd the dewy hill last night.
At dusk the squalid toad was seen,
Like quadruped, stalk o'er the green.
The whirling wind the dust obeys,
And in the rapid eddy plays.
The frog has changed his yellow vest,
And in a russet coat is drest.
The sky is green, the air is still,
The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill.
The dog, so alter'd in his taste,
Quits mutton-bones, on grass to feast,
Behold the rooks, how odd their flight,

They imitate the gliding kite,
And seem precipitate to fall,
As if they felt the piercing ball.
The tender colts on back do lie,
Nor heed the traveller passing by.
In fiery red the sun doth rise,
Then wades through clouds to mount the skies.

'Twill surely rain, we see't with sorrow,
No working in the fields to-morrow.
Dr. Jenner.


The Four Winds x z a Z-

T HE South wind brings wet weather,
The North wind wet and cold together;
The West wind always brings us rain,
The East wind blows it back again.
Old Rhyme.

The Wind in a Frolic a

T HE wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, "Now for a frolic now for a leap !
Now for a madcap galloping chase !
I'll make a commotion in every place! "

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Cracking the signs and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges trundled about;
And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes
For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the field it went, blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows;
Till, offended at such an unusual salute,
They all turned their backs, and stood sulky and mute.

So on it went capering and playing its pranks,
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks,
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;

'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow !"
And it made them bow without more ado,
Or it cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm,
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm;
And they ran out. like bees in a midsummer swarm;-

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to, roost in a terrified crowd;
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had swept on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain;
For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool and his shoes in the mud.

Then away went the wind in its holiday glee,
And now it was far on the billowy sea,
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro.
But lo it was night, and it sank to rest
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming West,
Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,
How little of mischief it really had done.
William Howitt.

Windy Nights ;Z a a

W HENEVER the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?


Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
Robert Louis Stevenson.


Days of Birth a az aZ

M ONDAY'S child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for its living,
And a child that's born on the Sabbath day
Is fair and wise and good and gay.
Old Rhyme.

Days of the Month -a -a a

T HIRTY days hath September,
April, June, and November;
All the rest have thirty-one;
February twenty-eight alone,-
Except in leap-year, at which time
February's days are twenty-nine.
Old Rhyme.

The Months Za a a

JANUARY brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,
Stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant,
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire and Christmas treat.

Old Rhyme.

Pippa's Song -a -a z 2

T HE year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven-
All's right with the world.
Robert Browning.

The First of May 1a -a a

T HE fair maid who, the First of May,
Goes to the fields at break of day,
And washes in dew from the hawthorn tree,
Will ever after handsome be.
Old Rhyme.

Oxfordshire Children's May Song a

SPRING is coming, spring is coming,
Birdies, build your nest;
Weave together straw and feather,
Doing each your best.

Spring is coming, spring is coming,
Flowers are coming too:
Pansies, lilies, daffodillies,
Now are coming through.

Spring is coming, spring is coming,
All around is fair;
Shimmer and quiver on the river,
Joy is everywhere.

We wish you a happy May.
Country Rhyme.

Child's Song in Spring a z

T HE silver birch is a dainty lady,
She wears a satin gown;
The elm tree makes the poldchurchyard shady,
She will not live in town.

The English oak is a sturdy fellow,
He gets his green coat late;
The willow is smart in a suit of yellow,
While brown the beech trees wait.

Such a gay green gown God gives the larches-
As green as He is good !
The hazels hold up their arms for arches
When Spring rides through the wood.

The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty,
The poplar's gentle and tall,
But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city-
I love him best of all!
E. Nesbit.

Baby Seed Song A- -a Z- A

L ITTLE brown brother, oh little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark ?
Here we lie cosily, close to each other:
Hark to the song of the lark-
"Waken !" the lark says, "waken and dress you;
Put on your green coats and gay,
Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you-
Waken 'tis morning-'tis May "

Little brown brother, oh little brown brother,
What kind of flower will you be ?
I'll be a poppy-all white, like my mother;
Do be a poppy like me.
What you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you
When you're grown golden and high !
But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;
Little brown brother, good-bye.
E. Nesbit.

Two Apple-Howling Songs ^ a

Sung in Orchards by the Afple-Howlers on Twelfth Day

H ERE stands a good apple tree.
Stand fast at root,
Bear well at top;
Every little twig
Bear an apple big;

Every little bough
Bear an apple now;
Hats full! caps full!
Threescore sacks full!
Hullo, boys hullo !


H ERE'S to thee, old apple tree,
Whence thou may'st bud, and whence thou may'st blow,
And whence thou may'st bear apples enow!
Hats full! Caps full!
Bushel-bushel-sacks full,
Old parson's breeches full,
And my pockets full too !
Huzza !
Old Rhymes.

Mine Host of "The Golden Apple"

A GOODLY host one day was mine,
A Golden Apple his only sign,
That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine.

My host was the bountiful apple tree;
He gave me shelter and nourished me
With the best of fare, all fresh and free.

And light-winged guests came not a few,
To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew,
And sang their best songs ere they flew.

I slept at night, on a downy bed
Of moss, and my Host benignly spread
His own cool shadow over my head.

When I asked what reckoning there might be,
He shook his broad boughs cheerily:-
A blessing be thine, green Apple-tree !
Thomas Westwood.

The Holly a < a
A Christmas Chant

N OW of all the trees by the King's highway,
Which do you love the best?
O the one that is green upon Christmas Day,
The bush with the bleeding breast.
Now the holly with her drops of blood for me:
For that is our dear Aunt Mary's tree.*

Its leaves are sweet with our Saviour's Name,
'Tis a plant that loves the poor:
Summer and Winter it shines the same,
Beside the cottage door.
S! the holly with her drops of blood for me:
For that is our kind Aunt Mary's tree.

'Tis a bush that the birds will never leave:
They sing in it all day long;
But sweetest of all upon Christmas Eve,
Is to hear the robin's song.
'Tis the merriest sound upon earth and sea:
For it comes from our own Aunt Mary's tree.
See note, p. 318.

So, of all that grow by the King's highway,
I love that tree the best;
'Tis a bower for the birds upon Christmas Day,
The bush of the bleeding breast.
0 the holly with her drops of blood for me:
For that is our sweet Aunt Mary's tree.
R. S. Iawker.

A Winter Song Za a Q

W HEN icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tuwhit! tuwhoo A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tuwhit tuwhoo A merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
William Shakespeare.


Old Winter -a a z a z

O LD Winter sad, in snow yclad,
Is making a doleful din;
But let him howl till he crack his jowl,
We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift
His hoary, haggard form,
And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand
Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard
Stream loose upon the blast,
And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime
From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death
On herb and flower and tree;
And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds
Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,-in the chimney roar,
And rattle the window pane;
Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye,
But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth,
On our roof-tiles, till he tire;
But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit
Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring;
Come, push the can about ;-
From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide
We'll keep old Winter out.
T. Noel.

Jack Frost Za A Z a

T HE door was shut, as doors should be,
Before you went to bed last night;
Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,
And left your window silver white.

He must have waited till you slept;
And not a single word he spoke,
But pencilled o'er the panes and crept
Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills
Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;
But there are fairer things than these
His fingers traced on every pane.

Rocks and castles towering high;
Hills and dales and streams and fields;
And knights in armour riding by,
With nodding plumes and shining shields.

And here are little boats, and there
Big ships with sails spread to the breeze;
And yonder, palm trees waving fair
On islands set in silver seas.

And butterflies with gauzy wings;
And herds of cows and flocks of sheep;
And fruit and flowers and all the things
You see when you are sound asleep.

For creeping softly underneath
The door when all the lights are out,
Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe,
And knows the things you think about.

He paints them on the window pane
In fairy lines with frozen steam;
And when you wake you see again
The lovely things you saw in dream.
Gabriel Setoun.

Snow in Town Xa a

N OTHING is quite so quiet and clean
As snow that falls in the night;
And isn't it jolly to jump from bed
And find the whole world white?

It lies on the window ledges,
It lies on the boughs of the trees,
While sparrows crowd at the kitchen door,
With a pitiful "If you please ? "

It lies on the arm of the lamp-post,
Where the lighter's ladder goes,
And the policeman under it beats his arms,
And stamps-to feel his toes;

The butcher's boy is rolling a ball
To throw at the man with coals,
And old Mrs. Ingram has fastened a piece
Of flannel under her soles;

No sound there is in the snowy road
From the horses' cautious feet,
And all is hushed but the postman's knocks
Rat-tatting down the street,

Till men come round with shovels
To clear the snow away,-
What a pity it is that when it falls
They never let it stay!

And while we are having breakfast
Papa says, "Isn't it light ?
And all because of the thousands of geese
The Old Woman plucked last night.

And if you are good," he tells us,
"And attend to your A B C,
You may go in the garden and make a snow-man
As big or bigger than me "
Rickman Mark.


The Old English Christmas a .'

(From Marmion)

AND well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night;
On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung:
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holy green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share

The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar's-head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,

And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through-half the year.
Sir Walter Scott.

Three Old Carols -a a


T HE first Nowell the Angel did say,
Was to three poor shepherds in fields as they lay;
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep
In a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,
Born is the King of Israel.

They looked up and saw a star
Shining in the East beyond them far,
And to the earth it gave great light,
And so it continued both day and night.
Nowell, Nowell-

And by the light of that same star,
Three Wise Men came from country far.

To seek for a King was their intent,
And to follow the star wherever it went.
Nowell, Nowell-

The star drew nigh to the north-west,
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest,
And there it did both stop and stay
Right over the place where Jesus lay.
Nowell, Nowell-

Then did they know assuredly
Within that house the King did lie;
One entered in then for to see,
And found the babe in poverty.
Nowell, Nowell-

Then entered in those Wise Men three
Most reverently upon their knee,
And offered there in His presence
Both gold, and myrrh, and frankincense.
Nowell, Nowell-

Between an ox stall and an ass,
This child truly there born He was;
For want of clothing they did Him lay
In the manger, among the hay.
Nowell, Nowell-

Then let us all with one accord
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord,
That hath made heaven and earth of nought,
And with His blood mankind hath bought.
Nowell, Nowell-

If we in our time shall do well,
We shall be free from death and Hell,
For God hath prepared for us all
A resting-place in general.
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,
Born is the King of Israel.
Old Carol.


A VIRGIN most pure, as the prophets do tell,
Hath brought forth a babe, as it hath her befell,
To be our Redeemer from death, hell, and sin,
Which Adam's transgression hath wrapt us all in.
Rejoice and be merry, set sorrow aside,
Christ Jesus, our Saviour, was born at this tide,

In Bethlehem city, in Jewry it was,
Where Joseph and Mary together did pass,
And there to be taxed, with many one mo',
For Casar commanded the same should be so.
Rejoice and be merry-

But, when they had entered the city so fair,
The number of people so mighty was there,
That Joseph and Mary, whose substance was small,
Could get in the city no lodging at all.
Rejoice and be merry-

Then they were constrain'd in a stable to lie,
Where oxen and asses they used to tie;
Their lodging so simple, they held it no scorn,
But against the next morning our Saviour was born.
Rejoice and be merry-

The King of all Glory to the world being brought,
Small store of fine linen to wrap him was wrought;
When Mary had swaddled her young son so sweet,
Within an ox manger she laid him to sleep.
Rejoice and be merry-

Then God sent an angel from Heaven so high,
To certain poor Shepherds in fields where they lie,
And bid them no longer in sorrow to stay,
Because that our Saviour was born on this day.
Rejoice and be merry-

Then presently after, the Shepherds did spy
A number of Angels appear in the sky,
Who joyfully talked, and sweetly did sing,
"To God be all glory, our Heavenly King."
Rejoice and be merry-

Three certain wise Princes, they thought it most meet
To lay their rich off'rings at our Saviour's feet;
Then the Shepherds consent, and to Bethlehem did go,
And when they came thither they found it was so.
Rejoice and be merry, set sorrow aside,
Christ Jesus, our Saviour, was born at this tide.
Old Carol.


G OD rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
For Jesus Christ, our Siviour,
Was born upon this day,
To save us all from Satan's pow'r
When we were gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and joy !
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,
Was born on Christmas Day.

In Bethlehem, in Jewry,
This blessed babe was born,
And laid within a manger,
Upon this blessed morn;
The which His mother, Mary,
Nothing did take in scorn.
O tidings-

From God our Heavenly Father,
A blessed angel came;
And unto certain shepherds
Brought tidings of the same:
How that in Bethlehem was born
The Son of God by name.
O tidings-

"Fear not," then said the angel,
"Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Saviour
Of virtue, power, and might,

So frequently to vanquish all
The friends of Satan quite."
0 tidings-

The shepherds at those tidings
Rejoichd much in mind,
And left their flocks a-feeding
In tempest, storm, and wind,
And went to Bethlehem straightway,
This blessed babe to find.
0 tidings-

But when to Bethlehem they came,
Whereat this infant lay,
They found Him in a manger,
Where oxen feed on hay,
His mother Mary kneeling,
Unto the Lord did pray,
0 tidings-

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All others doth deface.
0 tidings of comfort and joy !
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour,
Was born on Christmas Day.

Old Carol.

A Song of Saint Francis a
T HERE was a Knight of Bethlehem,
Whose wealth was tears and sorrows;
His men-at-arms were little lambs,
His trumpeters were sparrows.
His castle was a wooden cross,
On which He hung so high;
His helmet was a crown of thorns,
Whose crest did touch the sky.
Henry Neville Maugham.

Santa Claus a a Za I

H E comes in the night He comes in the night!
He softly, silently comes;
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white
Are dreaming of bugles and drums.
He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam,
While the white flakes around him whirl;
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home
Of each good little boy and girl.

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide;
It will carry a host of things,
While dozens of drums hang over the side,
With the sticks sticking under the strings.
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard,
Not a bugle blast is blown,
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird,
And drops to the hearth like a stone.


The little red stockings he silently fills,
Till the stockings will hold no more;
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills
Are quickly set down on the floor.
Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird,
And glides to his seat in the sleigh;
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard
As he noiselessly gallops away.

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West,
Of his goodies he touches not one;
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast
When the dear little folks are done.
Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can;
This beautiful mission is his;
Then, children, be good to the little old man,
When you find who the little man is.


The Farmer's Round a

F IRST comes January,
The sun lies very low':
I see in the farmer's yard
The cattle feed on stro';
The weather being so cold,
The snow lies on the ground.
There will be another change of moon
Before the year comes round.

Next is February,
So early in the spring:
The farmer ploughs the fallows,
The rooks their nests begin.
The little lambs appearing
Now frisk in pretty play;
I think upon the increase,
And thank my God, to-day.

March it is the next month,
So cold and hard and drear:
Prepare we now for harvest,
By brewing of strong beer.

God grant that we who labour
May see the reaping come,
And drink and dance and welcome
The happy Harvest Home.

Next of months is April,
When early in the morn
The cheery farmer soweth
To right and left the corn.
The gallant team come after,
A-smoothing of the land.
May Heaven the farmer prosper
Whate'er he takes in hand.

In May I go a-walking
To hear the linnets sing,
The blackbird and the throstle
A-praising God the King.
It cheers the heart to hear them,
To see the leaves unfold,
The meadows scattered over
With buttercups of gold.

Full early in the morning
Awakes the summer sun,
The month of June arriving,
The cold and night are done.
The Cuckoo is a fine bird,
She whistles as she flies,
And as she whistles Cuckoo"
The bluer grow the skies.

Six months I now have named,
The seventh is July.
Come, lads and lasses, gather
The scented hay to dry,
All full of mirth and gladness
To turn it in the sun,
And never cease till daylight sets,
And all the work is done.

August brings the harvest:
The reapers now advance,
Against their shining sickles
The field stands little chance.
"Well done !" exclaims the farmer,
"This day is all men's friend;
We'll drink and feast in plenty
When we the harvest end."

By middle of September,
The rake is laid aside,
The horses wear the breeching,
Rich dressing to provide;
All things to do in season,
Methinks is just and right.
Now summer season's over,
The frosts begin at night.

October leads in winter,
The leaves begin to fall,
The trees will soon be naked,
No flowers left at all:
The frosts will bite them sharply,
The elm alone is green;

In orchard piles of apples red
For cider press are seen.

The eleventh month, November,
The nights are cold and long,
By day we're felling timber,
And spend the night in song.
In cozy chimney corner
We take our toast and ale,
And kiss and tease the maidens,
Or tell a merry tale.

Then comes dark December,
The last of months in turn:
With holly, box, and laurel
We house and church adorn.
So now, to end my story,
I wish you all good cheer,
A merry, happy Christmas,
A prosperous New Year.
Old Song.

A Summer Evening* *

D OWN the deep, the miry lane,
Creaking comes the empty wain;
And driver on the shaft-horse sits,
Whistling now and then by fits;
And oft with his accustomed call,
Urging on the sluggish Ball.
A fragment.

The barn is still, the master's gone,
And thresher puts his jacket on,
While Dick upon the ladder tall,
Nails the dead kite to the wall.
Here comes shepherd Jack at last,
He has penned the sheep-cote fast;
For 'twas but two nights before,
A lamb was eaten on the moor;
His empty wallet Rover carries,
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries;
With lolling tongue he runs to try
If the horse trough be not dry.
The milk is settled in the pans
And supper messes in the cans;
In the hovel carts are wheeled,
And both the colts are drove a-field;
The horses are all bedded up,
And the ewe is with the tup;
The snare for Mister Fox is set,
The leaven laid, the thatching wet;
And Bess has slinked away to talk
With Roger in the Holly Walk.
Now, on the settle all but Bess
Are set to eat their supper mess;
And little Tom and roguish Kate
Are swinging on the meadow-gate.
Now they chat on various things,
Of taxes, ministers, and kings,
Or else tell all the village news,
How madam did the squire refuse;
How parson'on his tithes was bent,
And landlord oft distrained for rent.
Thus do they talk, till in the sky

The pale-eyed moon is mounted high.

The mistress sees that lazy Kate
The happing coal on kitchen grate
Has laid-while master goes throughout,
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out,
The candles safe, the hearths all clear,
And naught from thieves or fire to fear;
Then both to bed together creep,
And join the general troop of sleep.
H. Kirke White.

The Useful Plough a

A COUNTRY life is sweet!
In moderate cold and heat,
To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair !
In every field of wheat,
The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,
And every meadow's brow;
To that I say, no courtier may
Compare with they who clothe in gray,
And follow the useful plough.

They rise with the morning lark,
And labour till almost dark,
Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;
While every pleasant park
Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing

On each green, tender bough.
With what content and merriment
Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
To follow the useful-plough !*
Old Song.

The Water-Mill a

"ANY grist for the mill ?"
How merrily it goes !
Flap, flap, flap, flap,
While the water flows.
Round-about, and round-about,
The heavy mill-stones grind,
And the dust flies all about the mill,
And makes the miller blind.

"Any grist for the mill ?"
The jolly farmer packs
His waggon with a heavy load
Of very heavy sacks.
Noisily, oh noisily,
The mill-stones turn about:
You cannot make the miller hear
Unless you scream and shout.

"Any grist for the mill ?"
The bakers come and go;
Other lines omitted.

They bring their empty sacks to fill,
And leave them down below.
The dusty miller and his men
Fill all the sacks they bring,
And while they go about their work
Right merrily they sing.

"Any grist for the mill ?"
How quickly it goes round!
Splash, splash, splash, splash,
With a whirring sound.
Farmers, bring your corn to-day;
And bakers, buy your flour;
Dusty millers, work away,
While it is in your power.

"Any grist for the mill ?"
Alas it will not go;
The river, too, is standing still,
The ground is white with snow.
And, when the frosty weather comes,
And freezes up the streams,
The miller only hears the mill
And grinds the corn in dreams.

Living close beside the mill,
The miller's girls and boys
Always play at make-believe,
Because they have no toys.
"Any grist for our mill ? "
The elder brothers shout,
While all the little Petticoats
Go whirling round about.

The miller's little boys and girls
Rejoice to see the snow.
"Good father, play with us to-day;
You cannot work, you know.
We will be the mill-stones,
And you shall be the wheel;
We'll pelt each other with the snow,
And it shall be the meal."

Oh, heartily the miller's wife
Is laughing at the door:
She never saw the mill worked
So merrily before.
"Bravely done, my little lads,
Rouse up the lazy wheel,
For money comes but slowly in
When snow-flakes are the meal."
"Aunt Efie."

The Windmill a

BEHOLD! a giant am I!
Aloft here in my tower,
With my granite jaws I devour
The maize, and the wheat, and the rye,
And grind them into flour.

I look down over the farms;
In the fields of grain I see
The harvest that is to be,
And I fling to the air my arms,
For I know it is all for me.

I hear the sound of flails
Far off, from the threshing-floors
In barns, with their open doors,
And the wind, the wind in my sails,
Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place
With my foot on the rock below,
And whichever way it may blow,
I meet it face to face
As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive,
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sunday I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low melodious din;
I cross my arms on my breast,
And all is peace within.

H. W. Longfellow.

The Castle-Builder .a

T happened on a summer's day,
A country lass as fresh as May,
Decked in a wholesome russet gown,
Was going to the market town;
So blithe her looks, so simply clean,
You'd take her for a May-day queen;
Though for her garland, says the tale,
Her head sustained a loaded pail.
As on her way she passed along,
She hummed the fragments of a song;
She did not hum for want of thought-
Quite pleased with what to sale she brought,
She reckoned by her own account,
When all was sold, the whole amount.
Thus she-" In time this little ware
May turn to great account, with care:
My milk being sold for-so and so,
I'll buy some eggs as markets go,
And set them ;-at the time I fix,
These eggs will bring as many chicks;
I'll spare no pains to feed them well;
They'll bring vast profit when-they sell.
With this, I'll buy a little pig,
And when 'tis grown up fat and big,
I'll sell it, whether boar or sow,
And with the money buy a cow:
This cow will surely have a calf,
And there the profit's half in half;
Besides there's butter, milk, and cheese,
To keep the market when I please:
All which I'll sell, and buy a farm,

Then shall of sweethearts have a swarm.
Oh then for ribands, gloves, and rings !
Ay more than twenty pretty things-
One brings me this, another that,
And I shall have-I know not what "

Fired with the thought-the sanguine lass !-
Of what was thus to come to pass,
Her heart beat strong; she gave a bound,
And down came milk-pail on the ground:
Eggs, fowls, pig, hog (ah, well-a-day !)
Cow, calf, and farm-all swam away !
La Fontaine (translated).

John Barleycorn K- a a>

T HERE were three kings into the East,
Three kings both great and high,
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,
He faded unto age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
And tied him fast upon the cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe:
And still, as signs of life appeared,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all-
He crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland.

Robert Burns.

Oxfordshire Guy Fawkes' Song -a -a. -a-

REMEMBER, remember
The Fifth of November.
Bonfire Night-
We want a faggot
To make it alight.
Hatchets and duckets,
Beetles and wedges,
If you don't give us some,
We'll pull your old hedges;
If you don't give us one,
We'll take two:
The better for us
And the worse for you!
Country Rhyme.

The Cricket Bat Sings -z z a -a a

W ILLOW and cane is all I am, with a wisp of waxen
Cane and willow, willow and cane, fondly, perfectly wed;
But never wood for a bounding yacht was picked with a
nicer thought,
And nothing planned by human hand ever was deftlier
Willow and cane is all I am; but here is a wondrous thing:
Willow and cane is all I am, yet also am I a king!


The flower of the earth my subjects are, and the throne
of the cricket bat
Is the rich, green turf of a level mead, and who has a
throne like that ?

A century old is the crown I hold; nothing disturbs my
And men to me will bend the knee while centuries more
shall wane;
The Sword is great, but he rules by hate, rules with a
bloody hand:
Honesty, peace, and comradeship are features of my
Scour the earth and you shall not find the like of the
power I wield,
For the home of the brave, the strong, the free, is the
elm-girt cricket-field;
Both man and boy they thrill with joy to speed the ball
Willow and cane is all I am, yet look at the hosts I sway!
From Songs of the Bat."

Golden Rules for the Young za

N batting, hold your bat upright,
Play every ball with all your might.

In bowling, never exceed your strength,
Keep straight, but vary pace and length.

In fielding, put two hands to the ball:
A butter-fingers is worst of all.
From The Boy's Own Paper."

A Hunting Song -a l -

T HE dusky night rides down the sky,
And ushers in the morn;
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The huntsman winds his horn.
Then a-hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws
Her arms, and begs him stay;
"My dear, it rains, it hails, it snows,
You will not hunt to-day ?"
But a-hunting we will go.

A brushing fox in yonder wood,
Secure to find we seek:
For why, I carried, sound and good,
A cartload there last week.
And a-hunting we will go.

Away he goes, he flies the rout,
Their steeds all spur and switch,
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,
And some thrown in the ditch.
S But a-hunting we will go.

At length his strength to faintness worn,
Poor Reynard ceases fight;
Then hungry, homeward we return,
To feast away the night.
Then a-drinking we do go.
Henry Fielding.

A Skating Song -a -a a

A WAY! away! our fires stream bright
Along the frozen river;
And their arrowy sparkles of frosty light
On the forest branches quiver.
Away away for the stars are forth,
And on the pure snows of the valley,
In a giddy trance, the moonbeams dance-
Come, let us our comrades rally !

Away away o'er the sheeted ice,
Away, away we go;
On our steel-bound feet we move as fleet
As deer o'er the Lapland snow.
What though the sharp north winds are out,
The skater heeds them not-
'Midst the laugh and shout of the jocund rout,
Gray winter is forgot.*

Let others choose more gentle sports,
By the side of the winter hearth;
Or neathh the lamps of the festal halls,
Seek for their share of mirth;
But as for me, away away !
Where the merry skaters be-
Where the fresh wind blows, and the smooth ice glows,
There is the place for me.
Efhraim Peabody.

* One stanza omitted.


A Grace for a Child -z

H ERE a little child I stand,
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as Paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a Benizon to fall
On our meat, and on us all. Amen.
Robert Herrick.

A Ternarie of Littles, upon a
Pipkin of Jellie sent to a Lady. a

A LITTLE Saint best fits a little Shrine,
A little Prop best fits a little Vine,
As my small Cruse best fits my little Wine.
A little Seed best fits a little Soyle,
A little Trade best fits a little Toyle,
As my small Jarre best fits my little Oyle.
A little Bin best fits a little Bread,
A little Garland fits a little Head,
As my small Stuffe best fits my little Shed.

A little Hearth best fits a little Fire,
A little Chappell fits a little Quire,
As my small Bell best fits my little Spire.

A little Stream best fits a little Boat,
A little Lead best fits a little Float,
As my small Pipe best fits my little Note.

A little Meat best fits a little Bellie,
As sweetly, Lady, give me leave to tell ye,
This little Pipkin fits this little Jellie.
Robert Herrick.

His Grange; or, Private Wealth za

To tell how night drawes hence, I've none,
A Cock
I have, to sing how day drawes on.
I have
A maid (my Prew) by good luck sent,
To save
That little, Fates me gave or lent.
A Hen
I keep, which creeking day by day,
Tells when
She goes her long white egg to lay.
A Goose
I have, which, with a jealous care,
Lets loose
Her tongue, to tell what danger's neare,

A Lamb
I keep (tame) with my morsells fed,
Whose Dam
An Orphan left him (lately dead).
A Cat
I keep, that players about my House,
Grown fat
With eating many a miching Mouse.
To these
A Trasy f I do keep, whereby
I please
The more my rurall privacie:
Which are
But toyes, to give my heart some ease:
Where care
None is, slight things do lightly please.
Robert Herrick.

Nurse's Song Z>a ,a a a

W"HEN the voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.
"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,
Till the morning appears in the skies."

* Pilfering.

t His spaniel.

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep."
"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed."
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
And all the hills echoed.
William Blake.

The Shepherd 'a -a .- -Z

H OW sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply ;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their shepherd is nigh.
William Blake.

Infant Joy Q a Qa a

" HAVE no name;
I am but two days old."
"What shall I call thee?"
I happy am,
Joy is my name !"

"Pretty joy !
Sweet joy, but two days old.
Sweet joy I call thee;
Thou dost smile,
I sing the while;
Sweet joy befall thee !"
William Blake.

Holy Thursday >a -a -Y -

'TWAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red, and
blue, and green :
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters

Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
William Blake.


Laughing Song ^ Za Z-

W HEN the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;
When Mary, and Susan, and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing, Ha, ha, he !"

When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, ha, he "
William Blake.


Answer to a Child's Question -a z a

D 0 you know what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, I love and I love !"
In the winter they're silent-the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving-all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he-
"I love my Love and my Love loves me !"
S. T. Coleridge.

A Rule for Birds' Nesters z a '. a A
T HE robin and the red-breast,
The robin and the wren;
If ye take out o' their nest,
Ye'll never thrive agen !

The robin and the red-breast,
The martin and the swallow;
If ye touch one o' their eggs,
Bad luck will surely follow !
Old Rhyme.

Cherries 'a Q a a

U NDER the tree the farmer said,
Smiling and shaking his wise old head:
" Cherries are ripe but then, you know,
There's the grass to cut and the corn to hoe;
We can gather the cherries any day,
But when the sun shines we must make our hay;
To-night, when the work has all been done,
We'll muster the boys, for fruit and fun."

Up on the tree a robin said,
Perking and cocking his saucy head,
" Cherries are ripe and so to-day
We'll gather them while you make the hay;
For we are the boys with no corn to hoe,
No cows to milk, and no grass to mow."
At night the farmer said : "Here's a trick !
These roguish robins have had their pick."
F. E. Weathierley.


I. The Cuckoo's Habits a a

SN April,
Come he will;
In May,
He sings all day;

In June,
He changes his tune;
In July,
He makes ready to fly;
In August,
Go he must.
Old Rhyme.

II. The Cuckoo's Voice >a a A

N April the koo-coo can sing her note by rote,
In June of tune she cannot sing a note;
At first koo-koo, koo-coo, sing shrill can she do;
At last, kooke, kooke, kooke, six cookes to one koo.
John Heywood.

III. The Cuckoo's Character <

T HE Cuckoo's a fine bird,
He sings as he flies;
He brings us good tidings,
He tells us no lies.

He sucks little birds' eggs,
To make his voice clear;
And when he sings Cuckoo !"
The summer is near.
Old Rhyme.

IV. The Cuckoo's Wit a

A Cornish Folk-Song

N OW, of all the birds that keep the tree,
Which is the wittiest fowl?
Oh, the Cuckoo-the Cuckoo's the one !-for he
Is wiser than the owl!

He dresses his wife in her Sunday's best,
And they never have rent to pay;
For she folds her feathers in a neighbour's nest,
And thither she goes to lay!

He winked with his eye, and he buttoned his purse,
When the breeding time began ;
For he'd put his children out to nurse
In the house of another man !

Then his child, though born in a stranger's bed,
Is his own true father's son;
For he gobbles the lawful children's bread,
And he starves them one by one!

So, of all the birds that keep the tree,
This is the wittiest fowl!
Oh, the Cuckoo-the Cuckoo's the one !-for he
Is wiser than the owl!
R. S. Hawker.

Eagles a za z a a

(From Introduction to Songs of the Voices of Birds)

MAARTIN, the Boatman. Look you now,
This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft.
Child. A schooner, Martin?
Martin. No, boy, no; a brig,
Only she's schooner-rigged-a lovely craft.
Child. Is she for me? 0, thank you, Martin dear.
What shall I call her?
Martin. Well, sir, what you please.
Child. Then write on her The Eagle."
Martin. Bless the child !
Eagle Why, you know nought of eagles, you.
When we lay off the coast, up Canada way,
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell,
That was the place for eagles; bald they were,
With eyes as yellow as gold.
Child. 0, Martin dear,
Tell me about them.
Martin. Tell! there's nought to tell,
Only they snored o' nights and frighted us.
Child. Snored?
Martin. Ay, I tell you, snored; they slept upright
In the great oaks by scores; as true as time,
If I'd had aught upon my mind just then,
I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown gold;
It was most awful. When the moon was full,
I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch,
When she got low. I've seen them plunge like stones,
And come up fighting with a fish as long,
Ay, longer than my arm; and they would sail-
When they had struck its life out-they would sail-

Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes,
And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed
Grand as a frigate on a wind.
Child. My ship,
She must be called "The Eagle" after these.
Jean Ingelow.

The Burial of the Linnet Z Ac

F OUND in the garden dead in his beauty-
Oh that a linnet should die in the spring !
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.
Bury him kindly, up in the corner;
Bird, beast, and goldfish are sepulchred there.
Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,
Waving her tail like a plume in the air.

Bury him nobly-next to the donkey;
Fetch the old banner, and wave it about;
Bury him deeply-think of the monkey,
Shallow his grave, and the dogs get him out.

Bury him softly-white wool around him,
Kiss his poor feathers-the first kiss and last;
Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:
Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.
Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,
Silent through summer, though other birds sing.
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.
Mrs. Ewing.


The Perfect Greyhound Ka a ;

F you would have a good tyke,
Of which there are few like,-
He must be headed like a snake,
Necked like a drake,
Backed like a beam,
Sided like a bream,
Tailed like a bat,
And footed like a cat.
Old Rhyme.

Old Pincher ,z a
W HEN I gave to old Dobbin his song and his due,
Apollo I fear'd would look scornfully blue;
I thought he might spurn the low station and blood
And turn such a Pegasus out of his stud.

But another "four-footed" comes boldly to claim
His place beside Dobbin in merits and fame;
He shall have it,-for why should I be over nice,
Since Homer immortalised Ilion and-mice ?

I frolick'd, a youngling, wild, rosy, and fat,
When Pincher was brought in the butcher-boy's hat;
And the long-promised puppy was hail'd with a joy
That ne'er was inspired by a gold-purchased toy.

"What a darling !" cried I; while my sire, with a frown,
Exclaimed, "Hang the brute though 'tis easy to drown "
But I wept at the word, till my sorrowful wail
Won his total reprieve from the rope or the pail.

Regarding his beauty, I'm silent: forsooth,
I've a little old-fashion'd respect for the truth;
And the praise of his colour or shape to advance
Would be that part of history known as romance.

There were some who most rudely denounced him a "cur."
How I hated that name, though I dar'd not demur!
I thought him all fair; yet I'll answer for this,
That the fate of Narcissus could ne'er have been his.

Now Dobbin, the pony, belonged to us all;
Was at every one's service, and every one's call:
But Pincher, rare treasure, possession divine,
Was held undisputed as whole and sole mine.

Together we rambled, together we grew.
Many plagues had the household, but we were the two
Who were branded the deepest; all doings revil'd
Were sure to be wrought by "that dog and that child."

Unkennel'd and chainless, yet truly he served;
No serfdom was known, yet his faith never swerved;
A dog has a heart,-secure that, and you'll find
That love even in brutes is the safest to bind.

If my own kin or kind had demolish'd my ball,
The transgression were mark'd with a scuffle and squall;
But with perfect consent he might mouth it about,
Till the very last atom of sawdust was out.

When halfpence were doled for the holiday treat,
How I long'd for the comfits, so lusciously sweet:
But cakes must be purchased, for how could I bear
To feast on a luxury Pinch could not share ?

I fondled, I fed him, I coax'd or I cuff'd,-
I drove or I led him, I sooth'd or I huff'd:
He had beatings in anger, and huggings in love;
But which were most cruel, 'twere a puzzle to prove.

If he dared to rebel, I might battle and wage
The fierce war of a tyrant with petulant rage:
I might ply him with kicks, or belabour with blows,
But Pincher was never once known to oppose.

Did a mother appear the loud quarrel to learn,
If 'twere only with him it gave little concern:
No ill-usage could rouse him, no insult could chafe;
While Pinch was the playmate, her darling was safe.

If the geese on the common gave signal of fear,
And screams most unmusical startled the ear,
The cause was soon guess'd; for my foremost delight
Was in seeing Pinch put the old gander to flight.

Had the pantry been rifled of remnant of beef,
Shrewd suspicions were form'd of receiver and thief,
For I paused not at crime, and I blush'd not at fibs
That assisted to nurture his well-cover'd ribs.

The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared
To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared:
The gamekeeper threatened me Pinch should be shot;
But the threat was by both of us always forgot.

The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o'er again;
And our footsteps in mud were "remarkably" plain.
The tulips were crush'd, to the gardener's dismay;
And when last we were seen we were bending that way."

But we weathered all gales, and the years sped away,
Till his "bonny black hide was fast turning to gray;
When accents were heard most alarmingly sad,
Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad.

It was true: his fixed doom was no longer a joke;
He that moment must die: my young heart was nigh broke.
I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest,
And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress'd.

A shot,-a faint howl,-and old Pincher was dead.
How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed:
Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling, and clear;
Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, Iknow 'twas a tear.t
Eliza Cook.

A stanza omitted.
+The piece has been made to end here, but there are five more stanzas.

Poor Old Horse -a K a 4 9

O ONCE I lay in stable, a hunter well and warm,
I had the best of shelter from cold and rain and harm;
But now in open meadow, a hedge I'm glad to find,
To shield my sides from tempest, from driving sleet and
Poor old horse, let him die !

My shoulders once were sturdy, were glossy, smooth, and
But now, alas they're rotten, I'm not accounted sound.
As I have grown so aged, my teeth gone to decay,
My master frowns upon me; I often hear him say,
"Poor old horse, let him die !"

A groom upon me waited, on straw I snugly lay,
When fields were full of flowers, the air was sweet with hay;
But now there's no good feeding prepared for me at all,
I'm forced to munch the nettles upon the kennel wall,
Poor old horse, let him die !

My shoes and skin, the huntsman that covets them shall
My- flesh and bones the hounds, sir I very freely give,
I've followed them full often, aye many a score of miles,
O'er hedges, walls, and ditches, nor blinked at gates and stiles.
Poor old horse, let him die !

Ye gentlemen of England, ye sportsmen good and bold,
All ye that love a hunter, remember him when old;

O put him in your stable, and make the old boy warm,
And visit him and pat him, and keep him out of harm,
Poor old horse, till he die.
Old Song.

The Arab's Farewell to his Steed 4a <-

M Y beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark
and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed:
I may not mount on thee again--thou'rt sold, my Arab
steed I

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.
The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold;
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell !-thou'rt sold, my steed,
thou'rt sold.

Farewell! Those free, untired limbs full many a mile
must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care.


The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont
to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home

Yes, thou must go The wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun
and sky,
Thy master's home-from all of these my exiled one must
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become
less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master's hand to

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright;
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy
Then must I, starting, wake to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab

Ah rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant
Till careless eyes which rest on thee may count each start-
ing vein.

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