The world's greatest writer of verse for children, Robert Louis Stevenson, was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1850. After he was twenty-five years old he spent much of the rest of his short life traveling in search of health. From 1889 to the time of his death in 1894 he resided in Samoa. The verses given here (Nos.282-295) aretaken from his famous book,A Child's Garden of Verses, which, says Professor Saintsbury, "is, perhaps, the most perfectly natural book of the kind. It was supplemented later by other poems for children; and some of his work outside this, culminating in the widely known epitaph
Home is the sailor, home from sea,And the hunter home from the hill,
has the rarely combined merits of simplicity, sincerity, music, and strength." One of the best of Stevenson's poems for children outside theChild's Garden of Versesis the powerfully dramatic story calledHeather Ale. In attempting to solve the secret of Stevenson's supremacy, Edmund Gosse calls attention to the "curiously candid and confidential attitude of mind" in these poems, to the "extraordinary clearness and precision with which the immature fancies of eager childhood" are reproduced, and particularly, to the fact that they give us "a transcript of that child-mind which we have all possessed and enjoyed, but of which no one, except Mr. Stevenson, seems to have carried away a photograph." It is this ability to hand on a photographic transcript of the child's way of seeing things that, according to Mr. Gosse, puts Stevenson in a class which contains only two other members, Hans Christian Andersen in nursery stories, and Juliana Horatia Ewing in the more realistic prose tale. Children find expressed in these poems their own active fancies. It has been objected to them that the child pictured there is a lonely child, but every child, like every mature person, has an inner world of dreams and experiences in which he delights now and then to dwell. The presence of the qualities mentioned put at least two of Stevenson's prose romances among the most splendid adventure stories for young people,Treasure IslandandKidnapped. Perhaps no book is more popular among pupils of the seventh and eighth grades than the former. It has been called a "sublimated dime novel," that is, it has all the decidedly attractive features of the "dime novel" plus the fine art of story-telling which is always lacking in that sensational type of story.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
A child should always say what's true,And speak when he is spoken to,And behave mannerly at table;At least as far as he is able.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The friendly cow all red and white,I love with all my heart:She gives me cream with all her might,To eat with apple-tart.She wanders lowing here and there,And yet she cannot stray,All in the pleasant open air,The pleasant light of day;And blown by all the winds that passAnd wet with all the showers,She walks among the meadow grassAnd eats the meadow flowers.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
A birdie with a yellow billHopped upon the window-sill,Cocked his shining eye and said:"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?"
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The rain is raining all around,It falls on field and tree,It rains on the umbrellas here,And on the ships at sea.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
We built a ship upon the stairsAll made of the back-bedroom chairs,And filled it full of sofa pillowsTo go a-sailing on the billows.We took a saw and several nails,And water in the nursery pails;And Tom said, "Let us also takeAn apple and a slice of cake;"—Which was enough for Tom and meTo go a-sailing on, till tea.We sailed along for days and days,And had the very best of plays;But Tom fell out and hurt his knee,So there was no one left but me.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by;For every night at tea-time and before you take your seat,With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
From breakfast on through all the dayAt home among my friends I stay,But every night I go abroadAfar into the land of Nod.All by myself I have to go,With none to tell me what to do—All alone beside the streamsAnd up the mountain sides of dreams.The strangest things are there for me,Both things to eat and things to see,And many frightening sights abroad,Till morning in the land of Nod.Try as I like to find the way,I never can get back by day,Nor can remember plain and clearThe curious music that I hear.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
At evening when the lamp is lit,Around the fire my parents sit;They sit at home and talk and sing,And do not play at anything.Now, with my little gun, I crawlAll in the dark along the wall,And follow round the forest trackAway behind the sofa back.There, in the night, where none can spy,All in my hunter's camp I lie,And play at books that I have readTill it is time to go to bed.These are the hills, these are the woods,These are my starry solitudes;And there the river by whose brinkThe roaring lion comes to drink.I see the others far awayAs if in firelit camp they lay,And I, like to an Indian scout,Around their party prowled about.So when my nurse comes in for me,Home I return across the sea,And go to bed with backward looksAt my dear Land of Story-books.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
My bed is like a little boat;Nurse helps me in when I embark:She girds me in my sailor's coatAnd starts me in the dark.At night, I go on board and sayGood-night to all my friends on shore;I shut my eyes and sail awayAnd see and hear no more.And sometimes things to bed I take,As prudent sailors have to do;Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake,Perhaps a toy or two.All night across the dark we steer;But when the day returns at last,Safe in my room, beside the pier,I find my vessel fast.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!One morning, very early, before the sun was up,I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
How do you like to go up in a swing,Up in the air so blue?Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thingEver a child can do!Up in the air and over the wall,Till I can see so wide,Rivers and trees and cattle and allOver the countryside—Till I look down on the garden green,Down on the roof so brown—Up in the air I go flying again,Up in the air and down!
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Dark brown is the river,Golden is the sand.It flows along foreverWith trees on either hand.Green leaves a-floating,Castles of the foam,Boats of mine a-boating—Where will all come home?On goes the riverAnd out past the mill,Away down the valley,Away down the hill.Away down the river,A hundred miles or more,Other little childrenShall bring my boats ashore.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
I saw you toss the kites on highAnd blow the birds about the sky;And all around I heard you pass,Like ladies' skirts across the grass—O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!I saw the different things you did,But always you yourself you hid.I felt you push, I heard you call,I could not see yourself at all—O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!O you that are so strong and cold,O blower, are you young or old?Are you a beast of field and tree,Or just a stronger child than me?O wind, a-blowing all day long,O wind, that sings so loud a song!
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Whenever the moon and stars are set,Whenever the wind is high,All night long in the dark and wetA 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 thenBy he comes back at the gallop again.
The four poems that follow are fromLittle-Folk Lyrics, by Frank Dempster Sherman (1860—), and are used here by permission of and special arrangement with the publishers, Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston. Many of Sherman's poems have been found pleasing to children, particularly those dealing with nature themes and with outdoor activities.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
When I spin round without a stopAnd keep my balance like the top,I find that soon the floor will swimBefore my eyes; and then, like him,I lie all dizzy on the floorUntil I feel like spinning more.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
I often sit and wish that ICould be a kite up in the sky,And ride upon the breeze, and goWhatever way it chanced to blow.Then I could look beyond the town,And see the river winding down,And follow all the ships that sailLike me before the merry gale,Until at last with them I cameTo some place with a foreign name.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
Long ago there lived a KingA mighty man and bold,Who had two sons, named Dong and Ding,Of whom this tale is told.Prince Ding was clear of voice, and tall,A Prince in every line;Prince Dong, his voice was very small,And he but four feet nine.Now both these sons were very dearTo Bell, the mighty King.They always hastened to appearWhen he for them would ring.Ding never failed the first to be,But Dong, he followed well,And at the second summons heResponded to King Bell.This promptness of each royal PrinceIs all of them we know,Except that all their kindred sinceHave done exactly so.And if you chance to know a KingLike this one of the dong,Just listen once—and there is Ding;Again—and there is Dong.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
At evening when I go to bedI see the stars shine overhead;They are the little daisies whiteThat dot the meadows of the Night.And often while I'm dreaming so,Across the sky the Moon will go;It is a lady, sweet and fair,Who comes to gather daisies there.For, when at morning I arise,There's not a star left in the skies;She's picked them all and dropped them downInto the meadows of the town.
The three poems by Eugene Field (Nos.300-302) are used by special permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York City. Field was born at St. Louis in 1850, and died at Chicago in 1895. The quaint fantastical conceptions in these poems have made them supreme favorites with children. No.300belongs to the list of the world's great lullabies.
EUGENE FIELD
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe,—Sailed on a river of crystal lightInto a sea of dew."Where are you going, and what do you wish?"The old moon asked the three."We have come to fish for the herring fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we!"Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.The old moon laughed and sang a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe;And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea—"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,Never afeard are we!"So cried the stars to the fishermen three,Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam,—Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home:'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemedAs if it could not be;And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea;But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one's trundle-bed;So shut your eyes while Mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock in the misty seaWhere the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:—Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
EUGENE FIELD
Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?'Tis a marvel of great renown!It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop seaIn the garden of Shut-Eye Town;The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet(As those who have tasted it say)That good little children have only to eatOf that fruit to be happy next day.When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard timeTo capture the fruit which I sing;The tree is so tall that no person could climbTo the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,And a gingerbread dog prowls below—And this is the way you contrive to get atThose sugar-plums tempting you so:You say but the word to that gingerbread dogAnd he barks with such terrible zestThat the chocolate cat is at once all agog,As her swelling proportions attest.And the chocolate cat goes cavorting aroundFrom this leafy limb unto that,And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground—Hurrah for that chocolate cat!There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canesWith stripings of scarlet or gold,And you carry away of the treasure that rains,As much as your apron can hold!So come, little child, cuddle closer to meIn your dainty white nightcap and gown,And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum TreeIn the garden of Shut-Eye Town.
EUGENE FIELD
The gingham dog and the calico catSide by side on the table sat;'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!)Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plateAppeared to know as sure as fateThere was going to be a terrible spat.(I wasn't there; I simply stateWhat was told to me by the Chinese plate!)The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!"And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"The air was littered, an hour or so,With bits of gingham and calico,While the old Dutch clock in the chimney placeUp with its hands before its face,For it always dreaded a family row!(Now mind: I'm only telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true!)The Chinese plate looked very blue,And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that,Employing every tooth and clawIn the awfullest way you ever saw—And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!(Don't fancy I exaggerate—I got my news from the Chinese plate!)Next morning, where the two had satThey found no trace of dog or cat:And some folks think unto this dayThat burglars stole that pair away!But the truth about the cat and pupIs this: they ate each other up!Now what do you really think of that!(The old Dutch clock it told me so,And that is how I came to know.)
James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1849, and died at Indianapolis in 1916. His success was largely due to his ability to present homely phases of life in the Hoosier dialect. "The Raggedy Man" is a good illustration of this skill. In his prime Mr. Riley was an excellent oral interpreter of his own work, and his personifications of the Hoosier types in his poems in recitals all over the country had much to do with giving him an understanding body of readers. He had much of the power in which Stevenson was so supreme—that power of remembering accurately and giving full expression to the points of view of childhood. The perennial fascination of the circus as in "The Circus Day Parade" illustrates this particularly well. "The Treasures of the Wise Man" represents another class of Mr. Riley's poems in which he moralizes in a fashion that makes people willing to be preached at. It may be said very truly that most of his poems have their chief attraction in enabling older readers to recall the almost vanished thrilling delightsof youth, but poems that do that are generally found to interest children also.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
O the night was dark and the night was late,And the robbers came to rob him;And they picked the locks of his palace gate,The robbers that came to rob him—They picked the locks of his palace gate,Seized his jewels and gems of state,His coffers of gold and his priceless plate—The robbers that came to rob him.But loud laughed he in the morning red!—For of what had the robbers robbed him?—Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,When the robbers came to rob him,—They robbed him not of a golden shredOf the childish dreams in his wise old head—"And they're welcome to all things else," he said,When the robbers came to rob him.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed,As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's timeFilled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own,And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known!And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind,Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue,And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you,Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore,Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore!How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed,And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side!How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame,With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast,And the mystery within it only hinted of at lastFrom the little grated square in the rear, and nosing thereThe snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town,With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down,And his chief attention paid to the little mule that playedA tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed,As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's timeFilled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!He comes to our house every day,An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;An' he opens the shed—an' we all ist laughWhen he drives out our little old wobblely calf;An' nen—ef our hired girl says he can—He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.—Aint he a' awful good Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!W'y, The Raggedy Man—he's ist so goodHe splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;An' nen he spades in our garden, too,An' does most things 'atboyscan't do!—He clumbed clean up in our big treeAn' shooked a' apple down fer me—An' nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann—An' nother'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man—Aint he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymesAn' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers therselves!An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' canTurn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!Aint he a funny old Raggedy Man?Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!The Raggedy Man—one time when heWuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,Says "Whenyou'rebig like your Pa is,Air you go' to keep a fine store like his—An' be a rich merchunt—an' wear fine clothes?—Er whatairyou go' to be, goodness knows!"An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man!I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!"
James Hogg (1770-1835) was a poet of Scotland and a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott. He was known as the Ettrick Shepherd, from the place of his birth and from the fact that as a boy he tended the sheep. He had little schooling and was a thoroughly self-made man. The strongly marked and energetic swing of the rhythm, fitting in so well with the vigorous out-of-door experiences suggested, has made "A Boy's Song" a great favorite. Other poems of his that are still read are "The Skylark" and the verse fairy tale called "Kilmeny."
JAMES HOGG
Where the pools are bright and deep,Where the gray trout lies asleep,Up the river and o'er 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.Why the boys should drive awayLittle sweet maidens from the play,Or love to banter and fight so well,That's the thing I never could tell.But this I know, I love to play,Through the meadow, among the hay;Up the river and o'er the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.
Mary Howitt (1799-1888), an English author and translator, was the first to put Hans Christian Andersen's tales into English. She wrote on a great variety of subjects, and much of her work was useful and pleasing to a multitude of readers old and young. Besides the following poem, she is known well to young readers by her "The Fairies of Caldon-Low."
MARY HOWITT
"Will you walk into my parlor?"Said the Spider to the Fly;"'Tis the prettiest little parlorThat ever you did spy."The way into my parlorIs up a winding stair,And I have many curious thingsTo show when you are there.""Oh, no, no," said the little Fly,"To ask me is in vain;For who goes up your winding stairCan ne'er come down again.""I'm sure you must be weary, dear,With soaring up so high;Will you rest upon my little bed?"Said the Spider to the Fly."There are pretty curtains drawn around;The sheets are fine and thin,And if you like to rest awhile,I'll snugly tuck you in!""Oh, no, no," said the little Fly,"For I've often heard it said,They never, never wake again,Who sleep upon your bed."Said the cunning Spider to the Fly:"Dear friend, what can I doTo prove the warm affectionI've always felt for you?"I have within my pantryGood store of all that's nice:I'm sure you're very welcome—Will you please to take a slice?""Oh, no, no," said the little Fly,"Kind sir, that cannot be;I've heard what's in your pantry,And I do not wish to see.""Sweet creature!" said the Spider,"You're witty and you're wise;How handsome are your gauzy wingsHow brilliant are your eyes!"I have a little looking-glassUpon my parlor shelf;If you'll step in one moment, dear,You shall behold yourself.""I thank you, gentle sir," she said,"For what you're pleased to say,And, bidding you good-morning now,I'll call another day."The Spider turned him round about.And went into his den,For well he knew the silly FlyWould soon come back again:So he wove a subtle webIn a little corner sly,And set his table readyTo dine upon the Fly.Then came out to his door again,And merrily did sing:"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly,With the pearl and silver wing;"Your robes are green and purple—There's a crest upon your head;Your eyes are like the diamond bright,But mine are dull as lead!"Alas, alas! how very soonThis silly little Fly,Hearing his wily, flattering words,Came slowly flitting by;With buzzing wings she hung aloft,Then near and nearer drew,Thinking only of her brilliant eyes,And green and purple hue—Thinking only of her crested head—Poor, foolish thing! At last,Up jumped the cunning Spider,And fiercely held her fast.He dragged her up his winding stair,Into his dismal den,Within his little parlor—But she ne'er came out again.And now, dear little children,Who may this story read,To idle, silly, flattering words,I pray you ne'er give heed.Unto an evil counsellorClose heart and ear and eye,And take a lesson from this taleOf the Spider and the Fly.
William Howitt (1792-1879) and his wife, author of the preceding poem, worked together on many literary projects. One of William Howitt's poems, "The Wind in a Frolic," has long found a place in collections for children. It presents the wind in a sprightly, mischievous, and boisterous mood.
WILLIAM HOWITT
The 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 downShutters; 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 eyesFor 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 bagsOf the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its jokeWith 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 laneWith a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain;For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stoodWith 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 restOn the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming West,Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,How little of mischief it really had done.
Ann Taylor (1782-1866) and Jane Taylor (1783-1824), English writers of verse and prose for children, have earned a permanent place in the history of juvenile literature on account of the real worth of their work and because they were among the first authors to write poetry especially for children. They published jointly three volumes of verse for children:Original Poems for Infant Minds,Rhymes for the Nursery, andHymns for Infant Minds. Many of their poems seem a little too didactic, but they were genuine in their ethical earnestness and largely succeeded in putting things in terms of the child's own comprehension. The four poems given here represent them at their best, which was good enough to win the admiration of Sir Walter Scott.
ANN TAYLOR
Thank you, pretty cow, that madePleasant milk to soak my bread,Every day and every night,Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.Do not chew the hemlock rank,Growing on the weedy bank;But the yellow cowslips eat,That will make it very sweet.Where the purple violet grows,Where the bubbling water flows,Where the grass is fresh and fine,Pretty cow, go there and dine.