Polly
BROWN eyes,
Straight nose;
Dirt pies,
Rumpled clothes;
Torn books,
Spoilt toys;
Arch looks,
Unlike a boy’s;
Little rages,
Obvious arts;
(Three her age is,)
Cakes, tarts;
Falling down
Off chairs;
Breaking crown
Down stairs;
CATCHING flies
On the pane;
Deep sighs,—
Cause not plain;
Bribing you
With kisses
For a few
Farthing blisses;
Wide awake,
As you hear,
“Mercy’s sake,
Quiet, dear!”
New shoes,
New frock;
Vague views
Of what’s o’clock
When it’s time
To go to bed,
And scorn sublime
Of what is said;
Folded hands,
Saying prayers,
Understands
Not, nor cares;
Thinks it odd,
Smiles away;
Yet may God
Hear her pray!
Bedgown white,
Kiss Dolly;
Good-night!—
That’s Polly,
Fast asleep,
As you see;
Heaven keep
My girl for me!
NOW, who will live in the windmill, who,
With the powdery miller-man?
The miller is one, but who’ll make two,
To share his loaf and can?
“O, I will live with the miller, I!
To grind the corn is grand;
The great black sails go up on high,
And come down to the land!”
Now who will be the miller’s bride?
The miller’s in haste to wed
A girl in her pride, with a sash at her side,
A girl with a curly head!
“O, I will be the miller’s wife;
The dust is all my joy;
To live in a windmill all my life
Would be a sweet employ!”
Then spake the goblin of the sails
(You heard, but could not see),
“The wickedest man of the hills and dales,
The miller-man is he!
“None ever dwelt in the mill before
But died by the miller’s steel;
The whiskered rats lap up their gore,
He grinds their bones to meal!”
O gossiping goblin, my dreams will be bad,
You tell such dreadful tales!
O mill, how secret you seem! how mad,
How wicked you look, black sails!
OH, where’s the little maid
That Garibaldi kissed?
She ought to be displayed,
She shall be, I insist,
Command, resolve, determine,—
Beneath a tent of gold,
In swan’s-down and in ermine,
If Christmas should be cold!
I am not very rich,
But would give a golden guinea
To see that little witch,
That happy pick-a-ninny!
He bowed to my own daughter,
And Polly is her name;
She wore a shirt of slaughter,
Of Garibaldi flame,—
Of course I mean of scarlet;
But the girl he kissed—who knows?—
May be named Selina Charlotte,
And dressed in yellow clothes!
I look for her in church,
I seek her in the crowd;
Some bellman on a perch
Ought to ask for her out loud!
I would offer a reward,
But I might get cheated then,
And I cannot well afford
To make that guinea ten.
She may live up in Lancashire,
All in her yellow gown,
Or down in Hankypankyshire,
Or here in London town.
She may be on board a steamer
Upon the briny sea—
O stewardess! esteem her,
For a glorious girl is she!
Perhaps at some academy
Her Télémaque is read—
They would think it very bad of me
To turn her little head!
She may be doing fancy-work,
She may be taking tea;
But I wish some necromancy-work
Would bring that girl to me!
For I would dress the little girl
That Garibaldi kissed
In a necklace all of precious pearl,
With a bracelet for her wrist,
With diamonds in her stomacher,
And garlands in her hair;
She should sit, for folks to come at her,
All in a silver chair;
And no one would be rude
To Garibaldi’s pet,—
The sight would do the people good,
They never would forget!
Oh glorious is the girl
Whom such a man has kissed,
The proudest duke or earl
Stands lower in the list!
It would be a happy plan
For everything that’s human,
If the pet of such a man
Should grow to such a woman!
If she does as much in her way
As he has done in his,—
Turns bad things topsy-turvey,
And sad things into bliss,—
Oh, we shall not need a survey
To find that little miss,
Grown to a woman worthy
Of Garibaldi’s kiss!
IT is dark, the night is come,
And the world is hushed and dumb;
Sleep, my darling; God is here!—
Shall I see Him, mother dear?
It is day, the sun is bright,
And the world is laid in light;
Wake, my darling, God is here!—
Shall I see Him, mother dear?
Not the day’s awakening light,
Babe, can show thee God aright;
Not the dark, that brings thee sleep,
Him can from my darling keep.
Day and night are His, to fill:
We are His, to do His will;
Do His will, and, never fear,
Thou shalt see Him, baby dear.
FAIR lady, rare lady,
Light on the lea
Wandering, and pondering—
“Oh, bring him to me!”
Gallant knight, valiant knight,
Swift on the sea
Sailing, prevailing,
Thy shallop shall be!
Ringing bells, singing bells,
Chime merrilie!
Brave knight and lady bright
Wedded shall be!
I KNOW an absent-minded boy,
To meditate is all his joy;
He seldom does the thing he ought
Because he is so rapt in thought.
At marbles he can never win;
He wears his waistcoat outside in;
He cannot add a sum up right;
And often he is not polite.
His mother cries, “My poor heart breaks,
Because the child makes such mistakes;
He never knows,” she says with sighs,
“Which side his bread the butter lies!”
One day, absorbed in meditation,
He roamed into a railway station,
And in a corner of a train
Sat down, with inattentive brain.
They rang the bell, the whistle blew,
They shook the flags, the engine flew;
But all the noise did not induce
This boy to quit his mood abstruse.
And when three hours were past and gone
He found himself at Somethington;
“What is this place?” he sighed in vain,
For railway men can not speak plain.
When he got home his parents had
To pay his fare, which was too bad;
More than two hundred miles, alas!
The Absent Boy had gone first-class.
For fear he should, in absentness,
Forget his own name and address
Whilst he pursues his meditations,
And so be lost to his relations,
Would it be best that he should wear
A collar like our Tray? or bear
His name and home in indigo
Pricked on his shoulder, or below?
The chief objection to this plan
Is, that his father is a man
Who often moves. If we begin
To prick the Boy’s home on his skin,
Before long he will be tattooed
With indigo from head to foot:
Perhaps a label on his chest
Would meet the difficulty best.
WELCOME to the new To-day!
Yesterday is past and gone;
Good-bye Night and Twilight gray,
Earth has put the Morning on:
Morning on the high hill’s shoulder,
On the valley’s lap so soft,
On the river running colder,
On the trees with heads aloft.
All night Baby thought of nothing,
Sleep took care of Baby dear;
Baby, too, has fine new clothing,
Now the sweet To-day is here.
Tell me, without many guesses,—
Come! it is not much to con,—
Tell me what my Babe’s new dress is?
Babe has put the Morning on!
AH, the moon is watching me!
Red, and round as round can be,
Over the house and the top of the tree
Rising slowly. We shall see
Something happen very soon;—
Hide me from the dreadful moon!
Slowly, surely, rising higher,
Soon she will be as high as the spire!
It seems as if something must happen then
To all the world, and all the men!
Oh, I dare not think, for I am not wise—
I must look away, I must shut my eyes!
WHEN Love arose in heart and deed,
To wake the world to greater joy,
“What can she give me now?” said Greed,
Who thought to win some costly toy.
He rose, he ran, he stooped, he clutched,
And soon the flowers, that Love let fall,
In Greed’s hot grasp were frayed and smutched,
And Greed said, “Flowers! can this be all?”
He flung them down, and went his way,
He cared no jot for thyme or rose;
But boys and girls came out to play,
And some took these, and some took those,
Red, blue, and white, and green and gold;
And at their touch the dew returned,
And all the bloom a thousand fold,
So red, so ripe, the roses burned.
I MET a fair maiden, I saw her plain,
In the five-acre when the corn was mellow,
Counting her fingers again and again,
Her kirtle was green, her hair was yellow,
“Oh, what are you counting, fair maid?” said I,
“Counting, I will be bound, your treasures?”
“Oh no, kind sir,” she made sad reply,
“Counting, for penance, my unshared pleasures.”
Her head was bent low, and slowly went she;
If she goes on straight, she must come to the sea!
Blow, blow, south wind, the year’s on the turn;
Creep, little blue-bell, close under the fern!
I hope that the penance the little maid is doing
Will be finished before winter comes with rattle, rain, and ruin?
“Oh yes, kind sir, my penance will be over”
(She told me in a dream last night, I know it will come true),
“Come and look for me next summer, when the bee is in the clover,
And I will share my pleasures then with you, you, you!”
I
DID you ever see Giant Frodgedobbulum,
With his double great-toe and his double great thumb?
Did you ever hear Giant Frodgedobbulum,
Saying Fa-fe-fi and fo-faw-fum?
He shakes the earth as he walks along,
As deep as the sea, as far as Hong-kong!
He is a giant and no mistake;
With teeth like the prongs of a garden rake!
II
The Giant Frodgedobbulum got out of bed,
Sighing, “Heigh-ho! that I were but wed!”
The Giant Frodgedobbulum sat in his chair,
Saying, “Why should a giant be wanting a fair?”
The Giant Frodgedobbulum said to his boots,
“The first maid I meet I will wed, if she suits!”
They were Magic Boots, and they laughed as he spoke—
“Oh, ho,” says the giant, “you think it’s a joke?”
III
So he put on his boots, and came stumping down,
Clatter and clump, into Banbury town—
He did not fly into Banbury,
For plenty of time to walk had he!
He kicked at the gate—“Within there, ho!”
“Oh, what is your name?” says the porter Slow.
“Oh, the Giant Frodgedobbulum am I,
For a wife out of Banbury town I sigh!”
Up spake the porter, bold and free,
“Your room we prefer to your company.”
Up spake Frodgedobbulum, free and bold,
“I will build up your town with silver and
gold!”
Up spake Marjorie, soft and small,
“I will not be your wife at all!”
The giant knocked in the gate with his feet,
And there stood Marjorie in the street!
She was nine years old, she was lissome and fair,
And she wore emeralds in her hair.
She could dance like a leaf, she could sing like a thrush,
She was bold as the north wind, and sweet as a blush.
Her father tanned, her mother span,
“But Marjorie shall marry a gentleman,—
Silks and satins, I’ll lay you a crown!”—
So said the people in Banbury town.
Such was Marjorie—and who should come
To woo her but this Frodgedobbulum,
A vulgar giant, who wore no gloves,
And very pig-headed in his loves!
IV
They rang the alarum, and in the steeple
They tolled the church-bells to rouse the people.
But all the people in Banbury town
Could not put Frodgedobbulum down.
The tanner thought to stab him dead—
“Somebody pricked me?” the giant said.
The mother wept—“I do not care,”
Said F.—“Why should I be wanting a fair?”
He snatched up Marjorie, stroked his boot,
And fled; with Banbury in pursuit!
“What ho, my boots! put forth your power!
Carry me sixty miles an hour!”
In ditches and dykes, over stocks and stones,
The Banbury people fell, with groans.
Frodgedobbulum passed over river and tree,
Gallopy-gallop, with Marjorie;—
The people beneath her Marjorie sees
Of the size of mites in an Oxford cheese!
V
Castle Frodgedobbulum sulked between
Two bleak hills, in a deep ravine.
It was always dark there, and always drear,
The same time of day and the same time of year,
The walls of the castle were slimy and black,
There were dragons in front, and toads at the back.
Spiders there were, and of vampires lots;
Ravens croaked round the chimney-pots.
Seven bull-dogs barked in the hall;
Seven wild cats did caterwaul!
The giant said, with a smirk on his face,
“My Marjorie, this is a pretty place;
As Mrs. F. you will lead, with me,
A happier life than in Banbury!
Pour out my wine, and comb my hair,
And put me to sleep in my easy chair;
But, first, my boots I will kick away”—
And Marjorie answered, “S’il vous plait!”
Then the giant mused, “It befits my station
To marry a lady of education;
But who would have thought this Banbury wench
Was so accomplished, and could speak French?”
Did you ever hear Frodgedobbulum snore?
He shook the castle from roof to floor!
Fast asleep as a pig was he—
“And very much like one!” thought Marjorie.
VI
Then Marjorie stood on a leathern chair,
And opened the window to the air.
The bats flap, the owls hoot—
Marjorie lifted the giant’s boot!
The ravens shriek, the owls hoot—
Marjorie got into the giant’s boot!
And Marjorie said, “I can reach the moon
Before you waken, you big buffoon!”
Once, twice, three times, and away,—
“Which is the road to Banbury, pray?”
The Boot made answer, “Hah, hah! hoh, hoh!
The road to Banbury town I know.”
VII
The giant awoke in his easy chair,
Saying, “Ho, little Marjorie, are you there?
A stoup of wine, to be spiced the same!—
Exquisite Marjorie, je vous aime!”
Now where was Marjorie? Safe and sound
In the Magic Boot she cleared the ground.
Frodgedobbulum groaned—“I am bereft!
The left boot’s gone, and the right is left!—
The window’s open! I’ll bet a crown
The chit is off to Banbury town!
But follow, follow, my faithful Boot!
One is enough for the pursuit;
And back to my arms the wench shall come
As sure as my name’s Frodgedobbulum!”
VIII
Hasty Frodgedobbulum, being a fool,
Forgot of the Magic Boots the rule.
They were made on a right and a left boot-tree,
But he put the wrong leg in the boot, you see!
It was a terrible mistake
For even a giant in love to make—
Terrible in its consequences,
Frightful to any man’s seven senses!
Down came a thunderbolt, rumble and glare!
Frodgedobbulum Castle blew up in the air!
The giant, deprived of self-control,
Was carried away to the very North Pole;
For such was the magic rule. Poor F.
Now sits on the peak of the Arctic cliff!
The point is so sharp it makes him shrink;
The northern streamers, they make him blink;
One boot on, and one boot off,
He shivers and shakes, and thinks, with a cough,
“Safe in Banbury Marjorie dwells;
Marjorie will marry some one else!”
IX
And so Frodgedobbulum, the giant,
Sits on the North Pole incompliant.
He blinks at the snow with its weary white;
He blinks at the spears of the northern light;
Kicks out with one boot; says, “Fi-fo-fum!
I am the Giant Frodgedobbulum!”
But who cares whether he is or not,
Living in such an inclement spot?
Banbury town is the place for me,
And a kiss from merry Marjorie,
With the clerk in the vestry to see all fair—
For she wears orange-flowers in her hair!
She can dance like a leaf, she can sing like a thrush,
She is bold as the north wind, and sweet as a blush;
Her father he tans, her mother she spins;
Frodgedobbulum sits on the Pole for his sins;
But here comes Marjorie, white as milk,
A rose on her bosom as soft as silk,
On her finger a gay gold ring;
The bridegroom holds up his head like a king!
Marjorie has married a gentleman;
Who knows when the wedding began?
“OH, I never would be a guinea-pig, never!
They have so little brains!”—
The guinea-pig sprang, and—wasn’t it clever?—
He hid in the raspberry canes.
They scratched their fingers, they taxed their wits,
To get the guinea-pig out;
They nearly laughed themselves to fits
To see him run about.
The old and the young, the patient, the bold,
Were in that companie;
But the guinea-pig baffled the young and the old,
And merrily scampered he.
You thought you had him, but oh, mistake!
You grappled a lump of mould—
The guinea-pig stuck to the raspberry brake
As hath before been told.
“Oh, make me into a guinea-pig, make,
And never mind what I said;
For then I can hide in the raspberry brake,
When it’s time to go to bed.”
ALL in the morning early,
The Little Boy in Blue
(The grass with rain is pearly)
Has thought of something new.
He saddled dear old Dobbin;
He had but half-a-crown;
And jogging, cantering, bobbing,
He came to London town.
The sheep were in the meadows,
The cows were in the corn;
Beneath the city shadows
At last he stood forlorn.
He stood beneath Bow steeple,
That is in London town;
And tried to count the people
As they went up and down.
Oh, there was not a daisy,
And not a buttercup;
The air was thick and hazy,
The Blue Boy gave it up.
The houses, next, in London,
He thought that he would count;
But still the sum was undone,
So great was the amount.
He could not think of robbing,
He had but half-a-crown;
And so he mounted Dobbin,
And rode back from the town.
The sheep were in the meadows,
The cows were in the corn;
Amid the evening shadows
He stood where he was born.
MISS Hooper was a little girl,
Whose head was always in a whirl;
For she had hoop upon the head—
“My precious, precious hoop!” she said.
Trundling a hoop was her delight
From breakfast time to nearly night,
She loved it so! and, truth to tell,
At last she drove her hoop too well.
That hoop began to go one day
As if it never meant to stay;
Of course the girl would not give in,
But followed it through thick and thin.
The King and Queen came out to see
What sort of hoop this hoop might be;
My Lady said, “I think, my Lord,
That hoop goes of its own accord.”
This vexed the little girl, and so
She gave the hoop another blow,
And off it went—oh, just like mad—
She ran with all the strength she had.
Her hat-strings slipped, her hat hung back,
And soon she felt her waistband crack,
Her dear long hair flew out behind her,—
Her parents sent forth scouts to find her.
The King leapt on his swiftest horse,
And followed her with all his force;
Her father cried, “A thousand pound
To get my girl back safe and sound!”
SOME people came and made a dash
To pull her backward by the sash,
But all in vain—she did not stop—
At last she fainted, with a flop.
When she came to she sighed, with pain,
“I’ll never touch a hoop again!”
Is it not sad, when girls and boys
Go to excess like this with toys?
As for the hoop, the people say
It kept on going night and day,
Turning the corners, quite correct,—
A thing which you would not expect.
And so it lived, a hoop at large,
Which no one dared to take in charge;
Of course it thinned, but kept its shape,
A sort of hoop of wooden tape.
It thinned till people took a glass
To see the ghostly circle pass,
And only stopped—the facts are so—
When there was nothing left to go.
TO shoot, to shoot, would be my delight,
To shoot the cats that howl in the night;
To shoot the lion, the wolf, the bear,
To shoot the mad dogs out in the square.
I learnt to shoot with a pop-gun good,
Made out of a branch of elder-wood;
It was round, and long, full half a yard,
The plug was strong, the pellets were hard.
I should like to shoot with a bow of yew,
As the English at Agincourt used to do;
The strings of a thousand bows went twang!
And a thousand arrows whizzed and sang!
On Hounslow Heath I should like to ride,
With a great horse-pistol at my side:
It is dark—hark! A robber, I know!
Click! crick-crack! and away we go!
I will shoot with a double-barrelled gun,
Two bullets are better than only one;
I will shoot some rooks to put in a pie;
I will shoot an eagle up in the sky.
I once shot a bandit in a dream,
In a mountain-pass I heard a scream;
I rescued the lady and set her free,
“Do not fear, madam, lean on me!”
With a boomerang I could not aim;
A poison blow-pipe would be the same;
A double-barrelled is my desire,
Get out of the way—one, two, three, fire!
THERE was a boy whose name was Phinn,
And he was fond of fishing;
His father could not keep him in,
Nor all his mother’s wishing.
His life’s ambition was to land
A fish of several pound weight;
The chief thing he could understand
Was hooks, or worms for ground-bait.
The worms crept out, the worms crept in,
From every crack and pocket;
He had a worm-box made of tin,
With proper worms to stock it.
HE gave his mind to breeding worms
As much as he was able;
His sister spoke in angry terms
To see them on the table.
You found one walking up the stairs,
You found one in a bonnet,
Or, in the bed-room, unawares,
You set your foot upon it.
Worms, worms, worms for bait!
Roach, and dace, and gudgeon!
With rod and line to Twickenham Ait
To-morrow he is trudging!
O worms and fishes day and night!
Such was his sole ambition;
I’m glad to think you are not quite
So very fond of fishing!
“O YES! O yes! O yes! ding dong!”
The bellman’s voice is loud and strong;
So is his bell: “O yes! ding dong!”
He wears a red coat with golden lace;
See how the people of the place
Come running to hear what the bellman says!
“O yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Has just returned from the Holy Land,
And freely offers his heart and hand—
O yes! O yes! O yes! ding dong!”—
All the women hurry along,
Maids and widows, a chattering throng.
“O sir, you are hard to understand!
To whom does he offer his heart and hand?
Explain your meaning, we do command!”
“O yes! ding dong! you shall understand!
O yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Invites the ladies of this land
To feast with him in his castle strong
This very day at three. Ding dong!
O yes! O yes! O yes! ding dong!”
Then all the women went off to dress,
Mary, Margaret, Bridget, Bess,
Patty, and more than I can guess.
They powdered their hair with golden dust,
And bought new ribbons—they said they must—
But none of them painted, we will trust.
Long before the time arrives,
All the women that could be wives
Are dressed within an inch of their lives.
Meanwhile, Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Had brought with him from the Holy Land
A couple of bears—oh, that was grand!
He tamed the bears, and they loved him true,
Whatever he told them they would do—
Hark! ’tis the town clock striking two!
II
Among the maidens of low degree
The poorest of all was Cicely—
A shabbier girl could hardly be.
“O I should like to see the feast,
But my frock is old, my shoes are pieced,
My hair is rough!”—(it never was greased).
The clock struck three! She durst not go!
But she heard the band, and to see the show
Crept after the people that went in a row.
When Cicely came to the castle gate
The porter exclaimed, “Miss Shaggypate,
The hall is full, and you come too late!”
Just then the music made a din,
Flute, and cymbal, and culverin,
And Cicely, with a squeeze, got in!
Oh what a sight! full fifty score
Of dames that Cicely knew, and more,
Filling the hall from daïs to door!
The dresses were like a garden-bed,
Green and gold, and blue and red,—
Poor Cicely thought of her tossy head!
She heard the singing—she heard the clatter—
Clang of flagon, and clink of platter—
But, oh, the feast was no such matter!
For she saw Sir Nicholas himself,
Raised on a daïs just like a shelf,
And fell in love with him—shabby elf!
Her heart beat quick; aside she stept,
Under the tapestry she crept,
Touzling her tossy hair, and wept!
Her cheeks were wet, her eyes were red—
“Who makes that noise?” the ladies said;
“Turn out that girl with the shaggy head!”
III
Just then there was heard a double roar,
That shook the place, both wall and floor:
Everybody looked to the door.
It was a roar, it was a growl;
The ladies set up a little howl,
And flapped and clucked like frightened fowl.
Sir Hildebrand for silence begs—
In walk the bears on their hinder legs,
Wise as owls, and merry as grigs!
The dark girls tore their hair of sable;
The fair girls hid underneath the table;
Some fainted; to move they were not able.
But most of them could scream and screech—
Sir Nicholas Hildebrand made a speech—
“Order! ladies, I do beseech!”
The bears looked hard at Cicely
Because her hair hung wild and free—
“Related to us, miss, you must be!”
Then Cicely, filling two plates of gold
As full of cherries as they could hold,
Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold:—
“Welcome to you! and to you, Mr. Bear!
Will you take a chair? will you take a chair?”
“This is an honour, we do declare!”
Sir Hildebrand strode up to see,
Saying, “Who may this maiden be?
Ladies, this is the wife for me!”
Almost before they could understand,
He took up Cicely by the hand,
And danced with her a saraband.
Her hair was as rough as a parlour broom,
It swung, it swirled all round the room—
Those ladies were vexed, we may presume.
Sir Nicholas kissed her on the face,
And set her beside him on the daïs,
And made her the lady of the place.
The nuptials soon they did prepare,
With a silver comb for Cicely’s hair:
There were bands of music everywhere.
And in that beautiful bridal show
Both the bears were seen to go
Upon their hind legs to and fro!
Now every year on the wedding-day
The boys and girls come out to play,
And scramble for cherries as they may,
With a cheer for this and the other bear,
And a cheer for Sir Nicholas, free and fair,
And a cheer for Cis of the tossy hair—
With one cheer more (if you will wait)
For every girl with a curly pate
Who keeps her hair in a proper state.
Sing bear’s grease! curling-irons to sell!
Sing combs and brushes! sing tortoise-shell!
O yes! ding dong! the crier, the bell!
—Isn’t this a pretty tale to tell?
BABY boy was Mother’s joy,
And Mother nursed him sweetly;
Baby’s skin was pink and thin,
And mother dressed him neatly.
Baby boy was Mother’s joy,
But sometimes cried a-plenty;
Mother mild said, “Oh, my child!”
And gave him kisses twenty.
Baby boy was Mother’s joy,
Wide awake or sleeping;
Mother said, “God overhead
Have thee in His keeping!”
WHO can tell what Baby thinks?
I can, I!
Who knows what she means when she crows or blinks?
I do, I!
She thinks that a picture is good to eat,
She does, she!
She thinks she should love to swallow her feet.
Hah, hah, he!
She thinks when I touch the piano-keys,
La, si, do!
That I make the noise, as I do when I sneeze.
Hah, hah, hoh!
When I put her fat hand on the key-board shelf,
Do, re, mi!
She fancies she makes the noise herself.
She, sir, she!
She thinks she could swallow the lamp entire.
Flame, flame, flame!
She thinks she should like to cuddle the fire.
(Same, same, same!)
I wished her a pair of leather shoes—
I did, did!
Nothing like leather—and riper views.
Kid, kid, kid!
But whether the wit or the leather comes first,
(Post, hoc, hoc!)
One thing I know—she will be nursed.
Rock, rock, rock!
And Baby’s mamma is a beautiful nurse,
Joy, joy, joy!
She might go farther and fare much worse,
With a boy, boy, boy!
For though I have studied her wits and ways,
Bye-bye-bye!
I couldn’t take charge of her, nights and days.
Cry, cry, cry!
OH, do you know Aunt Mary Ann,
The dearest Aunt since time began,
Aunt Kate, Aunt Jane, Aunt Edith Ellen,
Aunt—oh, but never mind the spelling!
She lives up North, she lives down South,
Sweet are the kisses of her mouth;
She lives out East, she lives out West,
Bona puella Auntie est!
Always about the time of year
When Christmas Day is drawing near,
Auntie goes in for treats and toys,
And things, you know, for girls and boys.
Then, with a smile upon her lips,
She sits and thinks of tops and tips,
And takes her pen and writes to us,
My sister Fan, and me—that’s ’Gus.
She walks Cheapside, she walks the Strand,
And Paul’s Churchyard, with purse in hand,
She looks at dolls, she looks at drums,
And boxes full of bloomy plums.
She goes and finds out picture books,
And jewellery hung on hooks;
She knows the games we like to play;
She buys things, all to give away!
The loveliest things in every part
She goes and gets them all by heart,
And then sits down, with time to think,
And writes to us with pen and ink.
I know her thoughts,—she thinks of us,—
She thinks, “What would be nice for ’Gus?”
She dips in Santa Klaus’s pouch:
“What shall I send that scaramouch?”
She keeps it dark, but writes to say
She will be here for Christmas Day;
And when I know that Aunt will come,
Quam felix puer ego sum!
LORDS-and-ladies, red and white,
By the river growing,
Red-and-white is my delight,
When the stream is flowing.
I will be a lord to-day
(Round the world is going),
Will you be a lady gay?
(Roses, roses blowing).
“I will be your lady fair,
If you will show duty:”
I will love beyond compare,
You shall be my beauty.
Lords-and-ladies, red and white,
By the river growing;
Red-and-white is my delight,
When the stream is flowing.
A HARVEST moon! Was ever seen
A harvest moon so bright?
The crowded ivy, darkly green,
Was touched with primrose white.
The quiet skies uncovered lay,
And, far as you could see,
The night was like a ghostly day
On road, and field, and tree.
Silence and light! Will nothing speak
In the light and silence wide?
O lady moon, your other cheek
Why do you always hide?
Sweet on the air was the jessamine,
As I stood at my gate;
Yet I shuddered, and thought, “I will go in,—
The silence is too great!”
I looked to where the hill-tops showed
Behind the poplars green,
When there came trotting down the road
A dog—the dog was lean;
And you could tell, as he came by,
He had no friend on earth,
Nobody in whose partial eye
He was of any worth.
His tail hung down; his matted hair
Was like a worn-out thatch;
This dog came trotting up to where
The moonlight made a patch,
Falling between two poplar-trees;
And there the dog turned round,
Round, and round, by slow degrees—
Then crouched upon the ground.
And I brought forth some broken food,
And cried, “Old dog, get up!
That patch of moonlight may be good,
But on it you cannot sup.”
He came away—came many a pace,
And took what I bestowed;
Then, being refreshed, snuffed all the place,
And up and down the road.
I showed him where the thick grass grew
Against a sheltering wall;
I said, “Here is a bed for you,
With half-a-house and all.”
But two hours after—I kept watch
From my bedroom window-pane—
I saw that on that moony patch
He had lain down again!
And in the morning he was gone.—
What charm was it he found
In sleeping where the moonlight shone
In a patch upon the ground?
He might have slept where he had his bone,
Where the moon shone all around!
I am a superstitious man,
And it is my delight
To think there was a magic plan,
A meaning, in that night!
That magic dog that lay i’ the moon,
He will come back to me,
A fairy princess bright and boon,
Whom I that night set free!
There was a mystery in the air,
And in the primrose light;
The silence seemed to say, “Prepare!
It shall be done to-night!”
And could that mystery only mean
A dog that was not fat?
I saw a glint of elfin green
In the moonshine where he sat—
I heard the midnight clocks all round,
In distant falls and swells—
I heard a little silver sound,
The clink of elfin bells—
But will my princess be unbound,
If anybody tells?
THE ash-berry clusters are darkly red;
The leaves of the limes are almost shed;
The passion-flower hangs out her yellow fruit;
The sycamore puts on her brownest suit.
After a silence, the wind complains,
Like a creature longing to burst its chains;
The swallows are gone, I saw them gather,
I heard them murmuring of the weather.
The clouds move fast, the south is blowing,
The sun is slanting, the year is going;
O I love to walk where the leaves lie dead,
And hear them rustle beneath my tread!
DRUMMER-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum?
And why do you weep, sitting here on your thumb?
The soldiers are out, and the fifes we can hear;
But where is the drum of the young grenadier?
“My dear little drum it was stolen away
Whilst I was asleep on a sunshiny day;
It was all through the drone of a big bumble-bee,
And sheep and a shepherdess under a tree.”
Shepherdess, shepherdess, where is your crook?
And why is your little lamb over the brook?
It bleats for its dam, and dog Tray is not by,
So why do you stand with a tear in your eye?
“My dear little crook it was stolen away
Whilst I dreamt a dream on a morning in May;
It was all through the drone of a big bumble-bee,
And a drum and a drummer-boy under a tree.”
THE wind whistled loud at the window-pane—
Go away, wind, and let me sleep!
Ruffle the green grass billowy plain,
Ruffle the billowy deep!
“Hush-a-bye, hush! the wind is fled,
The wind cannot ruffle the soft smooth bed,—
Hush thee, darling, sleep!”
The ivy tapped at the window-pane,—
Silence, ivy! and let me sleep!
Why do you patter like drops of rain,
And then play creepity-creep?
“Hush-a-bye, hush! the leaves shall lie still,
The moon is walking over the hill,—
Hush thee, darling, sleep!”
A dream-show rode in on a moonbeam white,—
Go away, dreams, and let me sleep!
The show may be gay and golden bright,
But I do not care to peep.
“Hush-a-bye, hush! the dream is fled,
A shining angel guards the bed,
Hush thee, darling, sleep!”
WHAT! not know our Clean Clara?
Why, the hot folks in Sahara,
And the cold Esquimaux,
Our little Clara know!
Clean Clara, the Poet sings,
Cleaned a hundred thousand things!
She cleaned the keys of the harpsichord,
She cleaned the hilt of the family sword,
She cleaned my lady, she cleaned my lord;
All the pictures in their frames,
Knights with daggers, and stomachered dames—
Cecils, Godfreys, Montforts, Græmes,
Winifreds—all those nice old names!
She cleaned the works of the eight-day clock,
She cleaned the spring of a secret lock,
She cleaned the mirror, she cleaned the cupboard;
All the books she India-rubbered!
She cleaned the Dutch-tiles in the place,
She cleaned some very old-fashioned lace;
The Countess of Miniver came to her,
“Pray, my dear, will you clean my fur?”
All her cleanings are admirable;
To count your teeth you will be able,
If you look in the walnut table!
She cleaned the tent-stitch and the sampler;
She cleaned the tapestry, which was ampler;
Joseph going down into the pit,
And the Shunammite woman with the boy in a fit;
You saw the reapers, not in the distance,
And Elisha coming to the child’s assistance,
With the house on the wall that was built for the prophet,
The chair, the bed, and the bolster of it;
The eyebrows all had a twirl reflective,
Just like an eel; to spare invective,
There was plenty of colour, but no perspective.
However, Clara cleaned it all,
With a curious lamp, that hangs in the hall!
She cleaned the drops of the chandeliers,—
Madame in mittens was moved to tears!
She cleaned the cage of the cockatoo,
The oldest bird that ever grew;
I should say a thousand years old would do—
I’m sure he looked it; but nobody knew;
She cleaned the china, she cleaned the delf,
She cleaned the baby, she cleaned herself!
To-morrow morning she means to try
To clean the cobwebs from the sky;
Some people say the girl will rue it,
But my belief is she will do it.
So I’ve made up my mind to be there to see:
There’s a beautiful place in the walnut-tree;
The bough is as firm as the solid rock;
She brings out her broom at six o’clock.
THE garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers,
The sunflowers and hollyhocks stood up like towers;
There were dark turncap lilies and jessamine rare,
And sweet thyme and marjoram scented the air.
The moon made the sun-dial tell the time wrong;
’Twas too late in the year for the nightingale’s song;
The box-trees were clipped, and the alleys were straight,
Till you came to the shrubbery hard by the gate.
The fairies stepped out of the lavender beds,
With mob-caps, or wigs, on their quaint little heads;
My lord had a sword and my lady a fan;
The music struck up and the dancing began.
I watched them go through with a grave minuet;
Wherever they footed the dew was not wet;
They bowed and they curtsied, the brave and the fair;
And laughter like chirping of crickets was there.
Then all on a sudden a church clock struck loud:
A flutter, a shiver, was seen in the crowd,
The cock crew, the wind woke, the trees tossed their heads,
And the fairy folk hid in the lavender beds.