« VorigeDoorgaan »
I can show you, if you choose,
Three small pairs,
Flies have hairs too short to comb,
But the gnat
Black and brown
Is his gown ;
He can wear it upside down ;
It is laced
I admire his taste.
In the sun
When it rains
On the window-panes.
No such things,
With his buzzing wings.
On his back
Like a pedler's sack.
Put a crumb
Maybe he will come.
Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ?
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
Just to gad about.
Fie, O fie,
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
Cats, you know,
God knoweth all ;
Mousy nibbles in the wall ;
SLEEK coat, eyes of fire,
Ways playful, tail on high,
Wakes the nun in convent cell ;
The clock strikes two:— they go
To choir in a row.
The wind it blows,
The cock he crows;
The clock strikes three :— the wagoner
In his straw bed begins to stir.
The steed he paws the floor,
Creaks the stable-door ;
The clock strikes four :- 't is plain,
The coachman sifts his grain.
The swallow's laugh the still air shakes,
The sun awakes ;
The clock strikes five : - the traveller must be
He puts his stockings on.
The hen is clacking,
The ducks are quacking;
Thou lazy hag; come, ope thy eyes.
Quick to the baker's run;
The rolls are done;
The clock strikes seven :-
'Tis time the milk were in the oven.
Put in some butter, do,
And some fine sugar too ;
The clock strikes eight :-
Now bring my baby's porridge straight.
TRANSLATION OF CHARLES T. BROOKS.
I'm in love with you, Baby Louise !
With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes,
And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies,
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,
With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air,
Are you trying to think of some angel-tauglit
prayer The sick, both far and near.
You learned above, Baby Louise ?
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
Her child with a blessing,
TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.
SWEET and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Wind of the western sea !
Blow him again to me ;
my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to thee soon ;
Under the silver moon :
TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Ever busy Time prepares ;
THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.
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;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling;
TO MY INFANT SON.
Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,
“O, blest be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,
Thou happy, happy elf !
Thou tiny image of myself !
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.
One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry
That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,
Bedaubed with grease and mud.
She turned her East, she turned her West,
Staring like Pythoness possest,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief.
go stick stark staring wild !
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey like a crying lost-looking child ?
run, if I only knew which way –
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,
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
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
as sin !
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 ;
They were so very sweet,
They had never seemed so sweet before,
To Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
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 ?
She seems like an ideal love,
soon come back, you 'll see me drop stone And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own,
erly arms, and would n't I hug him and Like the woodland pheasant,
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