5 6

I can show you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes,

Three small pairs,
Made of hairs;
These he always wears.

Flies have hairs too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home;

But the gnat
Wears a hat.
Do you believe that ?

Black and brown

Is his gown ;

He can wear it upside down ;

It is laced
Round his waist;

I admire his taste.
Yet though tight his clothes are made,
He will lose them, I'm afraid,

If to-night
He gets sight
Of the candle-light.

[blocks in formation]

In the sun
Webs are spun ;
What if he gets into one ?

When it rains
He complains

On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I;
God has given the little fly

No such things,
So he sings

With his buzzing wings.
He can eat
Bread and meat ;
There's his mouth between his feet.

On his back
Is a pack

Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand ?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand ;

Put a crumb
On her thumb,

Maybe he will come.
Catch him? No,

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin'

hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie

a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa'


Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue :- glow'rin' like

the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a

cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what-- wauknin' sleepin'


Let him go,

Never hurt an insect so;

But no doubt
He flies out

Just to gad about.
Now you see his wings of silk
Drabbled in the baby's milk ;

Fie, O fie,
Foolish fly!
How will he get dry?

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean 's in a creel! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her

thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! - See, there he comes !

All wet flies
Twist their thighs ;
Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ;

Cats, you know,
Wash just so,
Then their whiskers grow.

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his

lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close

an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength

anew to me.



God knoweth all ;

Mousy nibbles in the wall ;
The clock strikes one :- like day,
Dreams o'er thy pillow play.

SLEEK coat, eyes of fire,
Four paws that never tire,

That's puss.

Ways playful, tail on high,

The matin-bell
Twisting often toward the sky,

Wakes the nun in convent cell ;
That's puss.

The clock strikes two:— they go

To choir in a row.
In the larder, stealing meat,
Patter, patter, little feet,

The wind it blows,
That's puss.

The cock he crows;

The clock strikes three :— the wagoner
After ball, reel, or string,

In his straw bed begins to stir.
'Wild as any living thing,
That's puss.

The steed he paws the floor,
Round and round, after tail,

Creaks the stable-door ;
Fast as any postal mail,

The clock strikes four :- 't is plain,
That's puss.

The coachman sifts his grain.
Curled up, like a ball,

The swallow's laugh the still air shakes,
On the door-mat in the hall,

The sun awakes ;
That's puss.

The clock strikes five :- - the traveller must be
Purring loud on missis' lap,

Having toast, then a nap,

He puts his stockings on.
That's puss.

The hen is clacking,
Black as night, with talons long,

The ducks are quacking;
Scratching, which is very wrong, The clock strikes six :- awake, arise,
That's puss.

Thou lazy hag; come, ope thy eyes.
From a saucer lapping milk,

Quick to the baker's run;
Soft, as soft as washing silk,

The rolls are done;
That's puss.

The clock strikes seven :-
Rolling on the dewy grass,

'Tis time the milk were in the oven.
Getting wet, all in a mass,
That's puss.

Put in some butter, do,

And some fine sugar too ;
Climbing tree, and catching bird,

The clock strikes eight :-
Little twitter nevermore heard,

Now bring my baby's porridge straight.
That's puss.

Killing fly, rat, or mouse,
As it runs about the house,
That's puss.

Pet of missis, “Itte mite,”.
Never must be out of sight,

I'm in love with you, Baby Louise !
That's puss.

With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes,

And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies,
And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the


God's sunshine, Baby Louise. (From the " Boy's Horn of Wonders," a German Book of Nursery


your hands, Baby Louise, Rhynies.)

Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair,
The moon it shines,

With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air,
My darling whines ;

Are you trying to think of some angel-tauglit
The clock strikes twelve :- God cheer

prayer The sick, both far and near.

You learned above, Baby Louise ?

When you


I'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! — O, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! Why! you never raise your beautiful head !

And say thou wouldst rather Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red

They'd watch o'er thy father! With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, For I know that the angels are whispering to “I love you,” Baby Louise.

thee." Do you hear me, Baby Louise ?

The dawn of the morning
I have sung your praises for nearly an hour,

Saw Derinot returning,
And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ;
And — you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,

And closely caressing
Ungrateful Baby Louise !

Her child with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering

with thee."

M. E.






SWEET and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea !
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me ;
my little one,


my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon ;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon :
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please ;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandoned to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush ;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat;
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet


in May
Flitting to each bloomy spray ;
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest :-
This thy present happy lot,
This in time will be forgot :
Other pleasures, other cares,

Ever busy Time prepares ;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.



In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a chid smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels."

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping;
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, O come back

to me!”




Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee :

“O, blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with

“And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Thou happy, happy elf !
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)

Thou tiny image of myself !
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear,)
Thou merry, laughing sprite,
With spirits, feather light,


rope !)

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin ;

THE LOST HEIR. (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !)

O where, and where

Is my bonnie laddie gone?"-OLD SONG.
Thou little tricksy Puck !

One day, as I was going by
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

That part of Holborn christened High,
Light as the singing bird that rings the air,

I heard a loud and sudden cry
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the

That chilled my very blood;

And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Thou darling of thy sire !

Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !)

I saw a crazy woman sally,
Thou imp of mirth and joy!

Bedaubed with grease and mud.
In love's dear chain so bright a link,

She turned her East, she turned her West,
Thou idol of thy parents ; – (Drat the boy!

Staring like Pythoness possest,
There goes my ink.)

With streaming hair and heaving breast,

As one stark mad with grief.
Thou cherub, but of earth ;
Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall
In harmless sport and mirth,

go stick stark staring wild !
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail !) Has ever a one seen anything about the streets

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey like a crying lost-looking child ?
From every blossom in the world that blows, Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,

run, if I only knew which way –
(Another tumble ! That's his precious nose !)

A Child as is lost about London streets, and es. Thy father's pride and hope !

pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a (He'll break that mirror with that skipping

bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, With pure heart newly stamped from nature's you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! mint,

You promised to have half an eye to him, you (Where did he learn that squint?)

know you did, you dirty deceitful young


The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was Thou young domestic dove ! (He'll have that ring off with another shove,)

with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest !

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing (Are these torn clothes his best?)

at making little dirt-pies. Little epitome of man !

I wonder he left the court, where he was better (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,)

off than all the other young boys, Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, life,

and a dead kitten by way of toys. (He's got a knife !)

When his Father comes home, and he always Thou enviable being !

comes home as sure as ever the clock No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being

Play on, play on,
My elfin John!

and the beef and the inguns not Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, —

done! (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) La bless you, good folks, mind your own conWith fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,

carns, and don't be making a mob in the Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

street ; With many a lamb-like frisk!

O Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !)

my poor little boy, have you, in your Thou pretty opening rose !

beat ? (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your Do, good people, move on ! don't stand staring nose !)

at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Balmy and breathing music like the south,

Saints forbid ! but he's p'r’aps been inviggled (He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

away up a court for the sake of his clothes Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;

by the priggs ; (I'll tell you what, my love,

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

it myself for a shilling one day in Rag



Fair ;


[ocr errors]




too many

And his trousers considering not very much | Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the

patched, and red plush, they was once his young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin
Father's best pair.

as sin !
His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the But let me get him home, with a good grip of

tub, or that might have gone with the his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a

whole bone in his skin ! But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only

two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown

sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot,

COME back, come back together, and not a fit, and you 'll know by that

All ye fancies of the past, if it's him.

Ye days of April weather, And then he has got such dear winning ways –

Ye shadows that are cast but O, I never, never shall see him no

By the haunted hours before ! more!

Come back, come back, my Childhood; O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing

Thou art summoned by a spell him back from death's door!

From the green leaves of the wildwood, Only the very last month when the windfalls,

From beside the charmed well, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

For Red Riding Hood, the darling, And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was

The flower of fairy lore ! spent in plums, and sixty for a child is

The fields were covered over

With colors as she went; And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us all, and, drat him ! made a seize of our

Daisy, buttercup, and clover

Below her footsteps bent; hog.

Summer shed its shining store ; It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ;

She was happy as she pressed them

Beneath her little feet; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child

She plucked them and caressed them ;
he was guzzling with his bell at the

They were so very sweet,
And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for

They had never seemed so sweet before,

To Red Riding Hood, the darling,
a distracted Mother and Father about

The flower of fairy lore.
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, How the heart of childhood dances
come home, to your best of Mothers !

Upon a sunny day! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they It has its own romances, drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters

And a wide, wide world have they ! and Brothers.

A world where Phantasie is king, Or maybe he's stole by some chimbly-sweeping Made all of eager dreaming ; wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and

When once grown up and tall what not,

Now is the time for scheming And be poked up behind with a picked pointed Then we shall do them all! pole, when the soot has ketched, and the

Do such pleasant fancies spring chimbly's red hot.

For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 0, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world

The flower of fairy lore ?
was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on
his face.

She seems like an ideal love,
For he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't The poetry of childhood shown,

soon come back, you 'll see me drop stone And yet loved with a real love,
dead on the place.

As if she were our own,
I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Moth- A younger sister for the heart;

erly arms, and would n't I hug him and Like the woodland pheasant,
kiss him !

Her hair is brown and bright; Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was — And her smile is pleasant,

but a child don't not feel like a child till With its rosy light. you miss him.

Never can the memory part

[ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors]
« VorigeDoorgaan »