The Boy that Loves a Baby
GOOD morrow, Little Stranger,
Good morrow, Baby dear!
Good morrow, too, Mrs. Grainger,
And what do you do here?
With your boxes, caps, and cap-strings,
Drowsy, hazard-hap things,
And love of good cheer?
I’m a little boy that goes, ma’am,
Straight to the point;
You said that my nose, ma’am,
Would soon be out of joint;
But my nose keeps its place, ma’am—
The middle of my face, ma’am;
It is a nose of grace, ma’am—
Aroint thee, aroint!
GOOD morrow, Little Stranger,
A girl, or a boy?
Good morrow, Mrs. Grainger—
Where are you, ma’am?—ahoy!
Here’s all things in their proper place,
And people likewise,
The laundry-maid in the copper-place,
The skylark in the skies!
Here’s love for Mamma,
And love for Papa;
Here’s a penny for a scavenger,
And a bag for the blooming lavender,
And a rope for Don’t Care,
And a kiss for the little Baby,
And one for a pretty lady
With a diamond in her hair!
I
THE Giant sat on a rock up high,
With the wind in his shaggy hair;
And he said, “I have drained the dairies dry,
And stripped the orchards bare;
“I have eaten the sheep, with the wool on their backs,”
(A nasty giant was he,)
“The eggs and the shells, the honey, the wax,
The fowls, and the cock-turkéy;
“And now I think I could eat a score
Of babies so plump and small;
And if, after that, I should want any more,
Their brothers and sisters and all.
“To-morrow I’ll do it. Ha! what was that?”
Said he, for a sound he heard;
“Was it fluttering owl or pattering rat,
Or bough to the breeze that stirred?”
Oh, it was neither rat nor owl,
Giant! nor shaking leaf;
Young Harold has heard your scheme so foul,
And it may come to grief!
One thing which you ate has escaped your mind,—
Young Harold his guinea-pig dear;
And he has crept up to try and find
His pet, and he shakes with fear;
He has hid himself in a corner, you know,
To listen and look about;
And if to the village to-morrow you go,
You may find the babes gone out!
II
Now, when to the village came Harold back
And told his tale so wild,
Then every mother she cried, “Good lack!
My child! preserve my child!”
And every father took his sword
And sharpened it on a stone;
But little Harold said never a word,
Having a plan of his own.
He laid six harrows outside the stile
That led to the village green,
Then on them a little hay did pile,
For the prongs not to be seen.
A toothsome sucking-pig he slew,
And thereby did it lay;
For why? Because young Harold knew
The Giant would pass that way.
Then he went in and said his prayers,—
Not to lie down to sleep;
But at his window up the stairs
A watch all night did keep,
Till the little stars all went pale to bed,
Because the sun was out,
And the sky in the east grew dapple-red,
And the little birds chirped about.
III
Now, all the village was early awake,
And, with short space to pray,
Their preparations they did make,
To bear the babes away.
The horses were being buckled in,—
The little ones looked for a ride,—
When on came the Giant, as ugly as Sin,
With a terrible six-yard stride.
Then every woman and every child
To scream aloud began;
Young Harold up at his watch-tower smiled,
And his sword drew every man;
For now the Giant, fierce and big,
Came near to the stile by the green,
But when he saw that luscious pig
His lips grew wet between!
Now, left foot, right foot, step it again,
He trod on——the harrow spikes!
And how he raged and roared with pain
He may describe who likes.
At last he fell, and as he lay
Loud bellowing on the ground,
The stalwart men of the village, they
With drawn swords danced around.
“O spare my life, I you entreat!
I will be a Giant good!
O take out those thorns that prick my feet,
Which now are bathed in blood!”
Then the little village maids did feel
For this Giant so shaggy-haired,
And to their parents they did kneel,
Saying, “Let his life be spared!”
His bleeding wounds the maids did bind;
They framed a litter strong
With all the hurdles they could find;
Six horses drew him along;
And all the way to his castle rude
Up high in the piny rocks,
He promised to be a Giant good—
The cruel, crafty fox!
IV
“O mother, lend me your largest tub!”—
“Why, daughter? tell me quick!”—
“O mother, to make a syllabub
For the Giant who is so sick.”
Now in fever-fit the Giant lay,
From the pain in his wounded feet,
And hoping soon would come the day
When he might the babies eat.
“O mother, dress me in white, I beg,
With flowers and pretty gear;
For Mary and Madge, and Jess and Peg,
And all my playmates dear,
“We go to the Giant’s this afternoon,
To carry him something nice,—
A custard three times as big as the moon,
With sugar and wine and spice.”
“O daughter, your father shall go with you;
Suppose the Giant is well,
And eats you up, what shall we do?”
Then her thought did Alice tell:—
“No, mother dear; we go alone,
And Heaven for us will care;
If the Giant bad has a heart of stone,
We will soften it with prayer!”
Now, when the Giant saw these maids,
Drest all in white, draw near,
He twitched his monstrous shoulder-blades,
And dropped an honest tear!
“Dear Giant, a syllabub nice we bring,
Pray let us tuck you in!”
The Giant said, “Sweet innocent thing!
“Oh, I am a lump of sin!
“Go home, and say to the man of prayer
To make the church-door wide,
For I next Sunday will be there,
And kneel, dears, at your side.
“Tell brave young Harold I forgive
Him for the harrow-spikes;
And I will do, please Heaven I live,
What penance the prayer-man likes.
“Set down, my dears, the syllabub,
And as I better feel,
I’ll try and eat a fox’s cub
At my next mid-day meal;
“And all my life the village I’ll keep
From harmful vermin free;
But never more will eat up the sheep,
The honey, or cock-turkéy!”
V
Now Sunday came, and in the aisle
Did kneel the Giant tall;
The priest could not forbear a smile,
The church it looked so small!
And, as the Giant walked away,
He knocked off the roof with his head;
But he quarried stones on the following day,
To build another instead.
AND it was high and broad and long,
And a hundred years it stood,
To tell of the Giant so cruel and strong
That kindness had made good.
And when Harold and Alice were married there,
A handsome sight was seen;
For the bridegroom was brave, and the bride was fair—
Long live our gracious Queen!
OH, who loves Prince Philibert?
Who but myself?
His foot’s in the stirrup;
His book’s on the shelf;
His dapple-grey Dobbin
Attends to his whip,
And rocks up and down
On the floor like a ship.
I went to the pond with him,
Just like the sea,
To swim his three-decker
That’s named after me;
His cheeks were like roses;
He knew all the rocks;
He looks like a sailor
In grey knickerbocks.
Oh, where is the keepsake
I gave you, my prince?
I keep yours in a drawer
That smells of a quince:
So how can I lose it?
But you, giddy thing!
Keep mine in your pocket,
Mixed up with some string.
Remember the riddle
I told you last week!
And how I forgave you
That scratch on the cheek!
You could not have helped it,—
You never would strike,
Intending to do it,
The girl that you like!
You call me Miss Stupid,
You call me Miss Prue;
But how do you like me
In crimson and blue?
We go partners in findings,
And money, and that,
You help me in ciphering;
Look at my hat!
I love you, Prince Philibert!
Who but myself?
With your foot in the stirrup,
Your book on the shelf!
We call you a prince, John,
But oh, when you crack
The nuts we go halves in,
You’re my Filbert Jack!
THERE was a little jackdaw
Lived on a vane;
He was a very black daw,
Shiny in the rain.
There was a boy in gold;
There was a girl in green;
The lad was very bold;
The maid was more serene.
There was a little church;
It had a little steeple;
The jackdaw on his perch
Cawed at the people.
This little golden boy
And green damosel
Did make it their employ
Their loves for to tell.
And early in the morning,
It came into their head
Themselves to be adorning
And go for to be wed.
The girl in green did stammer
At saying I take thee;
Gaffer said, and Gammer,
“What a pair they be!”
The yellow boy was bolder,
And spoke up like a king,
As if he had been older—
Hark, the bells ring!
In pops the jackdaw
At the belfry-door;
“Caw!” says the jackdaw,
“One peal more!”
THE tawny sheaves of wheat
Are standing on their feet,
They cuddle together,
They huddle together,
They laugh out bold,
Their tassels of gold
They toss up together;
They gossip together
In the harvest weather;
And what may the thing they are whispering be?
The trees stand waiting;
The windmills are prating
And gesticulating—
But what is debating?
What do they wait to hear or to see?
We shall soon know, I trust—
Whew, the wind! just
A soft, rapid gust,
That swirls about the dust
In the serpentine green lane, and the straws upon the lea!
The light white mill divines;
I can see him making signs
To his heavy black brother;
They nod to each other—
“Hail-fellows-well-met with the Wind are we!”
And my lady in her bower,
Or her parlour, or her tower,
Says, “In about an hour
We shall have a thunder-shower”——
Shine or storm, pretty lady, keep a kiss for me!
I SAID to the babe, out of swaddling bands,
As it kicked up its heels, and flung out its hands,
And blew little bubbles, and cried, and crew,
“You innocent dear! But I wouldn’t be you!
And yet I don’t know: you have never to think;
You have only to snuggle, and sleep, and drink,
And, in spite of original sin, grow fat.
Yes, really, one might do worse than that!”
I said to the schoolboy, “You joyous elf!”—
I mean, I murmured the thing to myself,
Or he would have laughed—“Get out, sir, do!
I have half a mind to wish I were you!”
He looked so jolly, that scaramouch did,
As gay as a Clown, as bold as the Cid;
But then I remembered task and taws—
There is always something to make one pause.
And my dot of a daughter, she says, “Papa!
I wish you would make me my own mamma!
She is so happy, she is so nice!
And then I would give you my three white mice!”
Says I, “You’re a duck, a dear, a pearl!”
But really my brain was inclined to whirl;
“There is always something,” I thought; “but why?
Perhaps we shall know of it by-and-bye.”
So I went to my bed, and I dreamed that night
Of a saint in heaven, all shining white.
“Sweet, fair-eyed seraph!” said I, in sleep;
“I wish I were you, in the rest you keep!”
And yet at the word I thought, in bed,
Of wife, and Walter, and Winifred;
The Christmas bells my slumber broke:
“There is always something!” thought I, and woke.
GREAT, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast—
World, you are beautifully drest.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly Earth! how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
A whisper inside me seemed to say,
“You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot:
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!”
THAT is the Kitten,
The one in black
That you see at the back,
Whose heart was smitten
(For kittens have hearts
As well as brains
And other parts,
For pleasures and pains)—
Was smitten, I say,
On a sunshiny day,
By a callow chicken,
And made a picking
Of the chicken’s bones
Out there, on the stones,
To the great disgust
Of the mother Hen,
Who came up then,
When the feast was ended,
And the undefended
Fowl just swallowed!
And the Hen was followed
By the Cock well-grown,
Who seemed disgusted
That the Hen had trusted
The chicken alone.
It was on the next day
That the Cat did essay
To visit the place
Of this disgrace,
In search of a chicken
Again for picking;
But now the Cock,
As firm as a rock,
Beholding the Kitten,
With rage was smitten,
And stuck out his chest,
And set up his crest,
And crowed defiance,
Like an army of lions,
To the Kitten who there,
With his tail in the air,
Saw that the hens,—
Three in number,—
Were not in slumber,
And so had the sense
To take his departure,
Like the arrow of an archer
Swift from a bow,
And left the Cock,
As firm as a rock,
To ruffle and crow,
All under the door,
As we said before,
With nothing to tire him,
And the hens to admire him.
In a corner was sitting
Another Kitten,
White, not black,
Who heard the clack,
And knowing the story
Of the chicken gory,
And, seeing the Cock
Defying the other
(It was her brother!)
Had trepidations
And meditations
About taking chickens,
And such, for pickings.
But cats will be cats
The whole world long!