Cuddle Doon

The bonniest bairn in a' the warl'Has skin like the drifted snaw,An' rosy wee cheeks sae saft an' sleek—There never was ither sic twa;Its een are just bonnie wee wander'd stars,Its leggies are plump like a farl,An' ilk ane maun see't, an' a' maun declare'tThe cleverest bairn,The daintiest bairn,The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn,The dearest, queerest,Rarest, fairest,Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'.The bonniest bairn in a' the warl'Ye ken whaur the ferlie lives?It's doon in yon howe, it's owre yon knowe—In the laps o' a thousand wives;It's up an' ayont in yon castle brent,The heir o' the belted earl;It's sookin' its thoomb in yon gipsy tent—The cleverest bairn,The daintiest bairn,The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn,The dearest, queerest,Rarest, fairest,Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'.* * * *Robert Ford.

The bonniest bairn in a' the warl'Ye ken whaur the ferlie lives?It's doon in yon howe, it's owre yon knowe—In the laps o' a thousand wives;It's up an' ayont in yon castle brent,The heir o' the belted earl;It's sookin' its thoomb in yon gipsy tent—The cleverest bairn,The daintiest bairn,The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn,The dearest, queerest,Rarest, fairest,Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'.

* * * *

Robert Ford.

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,Wi' muckle faucht an' din;Oh, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues,Your father's comin' in.They never heed a word I speak;I try to gi'e a froon,But aye I hap them up, an' cry,"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid—He aye sleeps neist the wa',Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece";The rascal starts them a'.I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks,They stop awee the soun';Then draw the blankets up and cry,"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."But ere five minutes gang, wee RabCries oot frae 'neath the claes,"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance—He's kittlin' wi' his taes."The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,He'd bother half the toon:But aye I hap them up an' cry,"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."At length they hear their father's fit,An', as he steeks the door,They turn their faces to the wa',While Tam pretends to snore."Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,As he pits aff his shoon;"The bairnies, John, are in their beds,An' lang since cuddled doon."An' just afore we bed oorsel's,We look at oor wee lambs;Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.I lift wee Jamie up the bed,An', as I straik each croon,I whisper, till my heart fills up,"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,Wi' mirth that's dear to me;But sune the big warl's cark an' careWill quaten doon their glee.Yet come what will to ilka ane,May He who sits aboonAye whisper, though their pows be bauld,"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."Alexander Anderson.

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid—He aye sleeps neist the wa',Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece";The rascal starts them a'.I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks,They stop awee the soun';Then draw the blankets up and cry,"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee RabCries oot frae 'neath the claes,"Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance—He's kittlin' wi' his taes."The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,He'd bother half the toon:But aye I hap them up an' cry,"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

At length they hear their father's fit,An', as he steeks the door,They turn their faces to the wa',While Tam pretends to snore."Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,As he pits aff his shoon;"The bairnies, John, are in their beds,An' lang since cuddled doon."

An' just afore we bed oorsel's,We look at oor wee lambs;Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.I lift wee Jamie up the bed,An', as I straik each croon,I whisper, till my heart fills up,"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,Wi' mirth that's dear to me;But sune the big warl's cark an' careWill quaten doon their glee.Yet come what will to ilka ane,May He who sits aboonAye whisper, though their pows be bauld,"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

Alexander Anderson.

The world is great: the birds all fly from me,The stars are golden fruit upon a treeAll out of reach: my little sister went,And I am lonely.The world is great: I tried to mount the hillAbove the pines, where the light lies so still,But it rose higher: little Lisa wentAnd I am lonely.The world is great: the wind comes rushing by,I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cryAnd hurt my heart: my little sister went,And I am lonely.The world is great: the people laugh and talk,And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,And I am lonely.George Eliot.From "The Spanish Gypsy."

The world is great: the birds all fly from me,The stars are golden fruit upon a treeAll out of reach: my little sister went,And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hillAbove the pines, where the light lies so still,But it rose higher: little Lisa wentAnd I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by,I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cryAnd hurt my heart: my little sister went,And I am lonely.

The world is great: the people laugh and talk,And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,And I am lonely.

George Eliot.

From "The Spanish Gypsy."

But were another childhood-world my share,I would be born a little sister there.

II cannot choose but think upon the timeWhen our two lives grew like two buds that kissAt lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime,Because the one so near the other is.He was the elder and a little manOf forty inches, bound to show no dread,And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread.I held him wise, and when he talked to meOf snakes and birds, and which God loved the best,I thought his knowledge marked the boundaryWhere men grew blind, though angels knew the rest.If he said "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath;Wherever he said "Come!" I stepped in faith.IILong years have left their writing on my brow,But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beamOf those young mornings are about me now,When we two wandered toward the far-off streamWith rod and line. Our basket held a storeBaked for us only, and I thought with joyThat I should have my share, though he had more,Because he was the elder and a boy.The firmaments of daisies since to meHave had those mornings in their opening eyes,The bunchéd cowslip's pale transparencyCarries that sunshine of sweet memories,And wild-rose branches take their finest scentFrom those blest hours of infantine content.IIIOur mother bade us keep the trodden ways,Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill,Then with the benediction of her gazeClung to us lessening, and pursued us stillAcross the homestead to the rookery elms,Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound,So rich for us, we counted them as realmsWith varied products: here were earth-nuts found,And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade;Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew,The large to split for pith, the small to braid;While over all the dark rooks cawing flew,And made a happy strange solemnity,A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me.* * * *IXWe had the selfsame world enlarged for eachBy loving difference of girl and boy:The fruit that hung on high beyond my reachHe plucked for me, and oft he must employA measuring glance to guide my tiny shoeWhere lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind"This thing I like my sister may not do,For she is little, and I must be kind."Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learnedWhere inward vision over impulse reigns,Widening its life with separate life discerned,A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains.His years with others must the sweeter beFor those brief days he spent in loving me.* * * *George Eliot.

I cannot choose but think upon the timeWhen our two lives grew like two buds that kissAt lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime,Because the one so near the other is.

He was the elder and a little manOf forty inches, bound to show no dread,And I the girl that puppy-like now ran,Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread.

I held him wise, and when he talked to meOf snakes and birds, and which God loved the best,I thought his knowledge marked the boundaryWhere men grew blind, though angels knew the rest.

If he said "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath;Wherever he said "Come!" I stepped in faith.

Long years have left their writing on my brow,But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beamOf those young mornings are about me now,When we two wandered toward the far-off streamWith rod and line. Our basket held a storeBaked for us only, and I thought with joyThat I should have my share, though he had more,Because he was the elder and a boy.

The firmaments of daisies since to meHave had those mornings in their opening eyes,The bunchéd cowslip's pale transparencyCarries that sunshine of sweet memories,

And wild-rose branches take their finest scentFrom those blest hours of infantine content.

III

Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways,Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill,Then with the benediction of her gazeClung to us lessening, and pursued us still

Across the homestead to the rookery elms,Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound,So rich for us, we counted them as realmsWith varied products: here were earth-nuts found,

And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade;Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew,The large to split for pith, the small to braid;While over all the dark rooks cawing flew,And made a happy strange solemnity,A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me.

* * * *

We had the selfsame world enlarged for eachBy loving difference of girl and boy:The fruit that hung on high beyond my reachHe plucked for me, and oft he must employ

A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoeWhere lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind"This thing I like my sister may not do,For she is little, and I must be kind."

Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learnedWhere inward vision over impulse reigns,Widening its life with separate life discerned,A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains.

His years with others must the sweeter beFor those brief days he spent in loving me.

* * * *

George Eliot.

O Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay,And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day;I wish from my heart I was far away from here,Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear.For it's home, dearie, home—it's home I want to be.Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken treeThey're all growing green in the old countree.In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meetWith her babe on her arm as she came down the street;And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing readyFor the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie.And it's home, dearie, home,—O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring;And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king;With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blueHe shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do.And it's home, dearie, home,—O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west,And that of all the winds is the one I like the best,For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free,And it soon will blow us home to the old countree.For it's home, dearie, home—it's home I want to be.Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken treeThey're all growing green in the old countree.William Ernest Henley.

In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meetWith her babe on her arm as she came down the street;And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing readyFor the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie.And it's home, dearie, home,—

O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring;And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king;With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blueHe shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do.And it's home, dearie, home,—

O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west,And that of all the winds is the one I like the best,For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free,And it soon will blow us home to the old countree.For it's home, dearie, home—it's home I want to be.Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea.O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken treeThey're all growing green in the old countree.

William Ernest Henley.

Over the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey,Over rocks that are steepest,Love will find out the way.Where there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie,Where there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;Where the midge dares not ventureLest herself fast she lay,If Love come, he will enterAnd will find out the way.* * * *Old English.

Over the mountainsAnd over the waves,Under the fountainsAnd under the graves;Under floods that are deepest,Which Neptune obey,Over rocks that are steepest,Love will find out the way.

Where there is no placeFor the glow-worm to lie,Where there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;Where the midge dares not ventureLest herself fast she lay,If Love come, he will enterAnd will find out the way.

* * * *

Old English.

And are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jades, lay by your wheel;Is this the time to spin a thread.When Colin's at the door?Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,And see him come ashore.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.And gie to me my bigonet,My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wifeThat Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on,My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gownAnd Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman,For he's been long awa.There's twa fat hens upo' the coopBeen fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean,Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin faredWhen he was far awa?Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair.And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!If Colin's weel, and weel content,I hae nae mair to crave;And gin I live to keep him sae,I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.William J. Mickle.

And gie to me my bigonet,My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wifeThat Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on,My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gownAnd Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman,For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coopBeen fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean,Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin faredWhen he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair.And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin's weel, and weel content,I hae nae mair to crave;And gin I live to keep him sae,I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.

William J. Mickle.

Over the hill the farm-boy goes.His shadow lengthens along the land,A giant staff in a giant hand;In the poplar-tree, above the spring,The katydid begins to sing;The early dews are falling;—Into the stone-heap darts the mink;The swallows skim the river's brink;And home to the woodland fly the crows,When over the hill the farm-boy goes,Cheerily calling,"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"Farther, farther, over the hill,Faintly calling, calling still,"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"Into the yard the farmer goes,With grateful heart, at the close of day:Harness and chain are hung away;In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough,The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,The cooling dews are falling;—The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,The pigs come grunting to his feet,And the whinnying mare her master knows,When into the yard the farmer goes,His cattle calling,—"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"While still the cow-boy, far away,Goes seeking those that have gone astray,—"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"Now to her task the milkmaid goes.The cattle come crowding through the gate,Lowing, pushing, little and great;About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,While the pleasant dews are falling;—The new milch heifer is quick and shy,But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,And the white stream into the bright pail flows,When to her task the milkmaid goes,Soothingly calling,"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,And sits and milks in the twilight cool.Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!"To supper at last the farmer goes.The apples are pared, the paper read,The stories are told, then all to bed.Without, the crickets' ceaseless songMakes shrill the silence all night long;The heavy dews are falling.The housewife's hand has turned the lock;Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;The household sinks to deep repose,But still in sleep the farm-boy goesSinging, calling,—"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,Murmuring "So, boss! so!"John Townsend Trowbridge.

Into the yard the farmer goes,With grateful heart, at the close of day:Harness and chain are hung away;In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough,The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,The cooling dews are falling;—The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,The pigs come grunting to his feet,And the whinnying mare her master knows,When into the yard the farmer goes,His cattle calling,—"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"While still the cow-boy, far away,Goes seeking those that have gone astray,—"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.The cattle come crowding through the gate,Lowing, pushing, little and great;About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,While the pleasant dews are falling;—The new milch heifer is quick and shy,But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,And the white stream into the bright pail flows,When to her task the milkmaid goes,Soothingly calling,"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool,And sits and milks in the twilight cool.Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes.The apples are pared, the paper read,The stories are told, then all to bed.Without, the crickets' ceaseless songMakes shrill the silence all night long;The heavy dews are falling.The housewife's hand has turned the lock;Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;The household sinks to deep repose,But still in sleep the farm-boy goesSinging, calling,—"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,Murmuring "So, boss! so!"

John Townsend Trowbridge.

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;Home-keeping hearts are happiest,For those that wander they know not whereAre full of trouble and full of care,To stay at home is best.Weary and homesick and distressed,They wander east, they wander west,And are baffled, and beaten and blown aboutBy the winds of the wilderness of doubt;To stay at home is best.Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;The bird is safest in its nest:O'er all that flutter their wings and flyA hawk is hovering in the sky;To stay at home is best.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;Home-keeping hearts are happiest,For those that wander they know not whereAre full of trouble and full of care,To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,They wander east, they wander west,And are baffled, and beaten and blown aboutBy the winds of the wilderness of doubt;To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;The bird is safest in its nest:O'er all that flutter their wings and flyA hawk is hovering in the sky;To stay at home is best.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

IA baby's feet, like seashells pink,Might tempt, should heaven see meet,An angel's lips to kiss, we think,—A baby's feet.Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heatThey stretch and spread and winkTheir ten soft buds that part and meet.No flower-bells that expand and shrinkGleam half so heavenly sweet,As shine on life's untrodden brink,—A baby's feet.IIA baby's hands, like rosebuds furled,Where yet no leaf expands,Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,—A baby's hands.Then, even as warriors grip their brandsWhen battle's bolt is hurled,They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.No rose-buds yet by dawn impearledMatch, even in loveliest lands,The sweetest flowers in all the world,—A baby's hands.IIIA baby's eyes, ere speech begin,Ere lips learn words or sighs,Bless all things bright enough to winA baby's eyes.Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies,And sleep flows out and in,Sees perfect in them Paradise!Their glance might cast out pain and sin,Their speech make dumb the wise,By mute glad godhead felt withinA baby's eyes.Algernon Charles Swinburne.

A baby's feet, like seashells pink,Might tempt, should heaven see meet,An angel's lips to kiss, we think,—A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heatThey stretch and spread and winkTheir ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrinkGleam half so heavenly sweet,As shine on life's untrodden brink,—A baby's feet.

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled,Where yet no leaf expands,Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,—A baby's hands.

Then, even as warriors grip their brandsWhen battle's bolt is hurled,They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rose-buds yet by dawn impearledMatch, even in loveliest lands,The sweetest flowers in all the world,—A baby's hands.

III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,Ere lips learn words or sighs,Bless all things bright enough to winA baby's eyes.

Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies,And sleep flows out and in,Sees perfect in them Paradise!

Their glance might cast out pain and sin,Their speech make dumb the wise,By mute glad godhead felt withinA baby's eyes.Algernon Charles Swinburne.

———A simple child,That lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?I met a little cottage girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad:Her eyes were fair, and very fair;—Her beauty made me glad."Sisters and brothers, little Maid,How many may you be?""How many? Seven in all," she said,And wondering looked at me."And where are they? I pray you tell."She answered, "Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea."Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the churchyard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother.""You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet Maid, how this may be."Then did the little maid reply,"Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree.""You run about, my little Maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laidThen ye are only five.""Their graves are green, they may be seen,"The little Maid replied,"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,And they are side by side."My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sitAnd sing a song to them."And often after sunset, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringerAnd eat my supper there."The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain;And then she went away."So in the churchyard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I."And when the ground was white with snowAnd I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.""How many are you, then," said I,"If they two are in heaven?"Quick was the little Maid's reply,"O Master! we are seven.""But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!"'Twas throwing words away: for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, "Nay, we are seven!"William Wordsworth.

———A simple child,That lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad:Her eyes were fair, and very fair;—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,How many may you be?""How many? Seven in all," she said,And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."She answered, "Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the churchyard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,"Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laidThen ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"The little Maid replied,"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sitAnd sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringerAnd eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain;And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snowAnd I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,"If they two are in heaven?"Quick was the little Maid's reply,"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!"'Twas throwing words away: for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

William Wordsworth.

Most of these songs come to you from the masters of English poetry. Nations, like individuals, have their "play-spells," and Shakespeare, Drayton, and "rare Ben Jonson" belong to that wonderful age of Elizabeth when more than ten score of poets were making England a veritable nest of singing-birds.

Dowden says of the exquisite songs scattered through Shakespeare's plays, that if they do not make their own way, like the notes in the wildwood, no words will open the dull ear to take them in. Of Drayton we give you here "The Arming of Pigwiggen," from "Nymphidia," and later on "The Battle of Agincourt," called, respectively, the best fantastic poem and the best war poem in the language.

Then comes Milton the sublime; Milton set apart among poets; so that the adjective Miltonic has come to be a synonym for gravity, loftiness, and majesty. After Milton, Dryden, often called the greatest poet of a little age; but if he lacked the true sublimity he reverenced in the great Puritan, he was still the first, and perhaps the greatest, master of satirical poetry. Then, more than half a century afterward, comes Coleridge with his dreamy grace and his touch of the supernatural; his marvellous poetic gift, of sudden blossoming and sad and premature decay. Contemporary with Coleridge was Shelley, the master singer of his time, pouring out, like his own skylark, "his full heart in profuse strains of unpremeditated art."

When these two voices were hushed the Victorian era was dawning and the laurel worn by Wordsworth was placed on the brow of a poet who, by his perfect grace of manner, melody of rhythm, finished skill, clear insight, and nobility of thought, gave his name to the Tennysonian age.

Puck.How now, spirit! whither wander you?Fairy.Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moonè's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green;The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats, spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favors,In those freckles live their savors;I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:Our queen and all her elves come here anon.From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."

Puck.How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fairy.Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moonè's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green;The cowslips tall her pensioners be;In their gold coats, spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favors,In those freckles live their savors;I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:Our queen and all her elves come here anon.

From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."

You spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good-night, with lullaby.Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good-night, with lullaby.From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."

You spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good-night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody,Sing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good-night, with lullaby.

From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."

Oberon.Through the house give glimmering light,By the dead and drowsy fire;Every elf and fairy sprite,Hop as light as bird from brier;And this ditty after meSing, and dance it trippingly.Titania.First, rehearse your song by rote,To each word a warbling note:Hand in hand with fairy graceWill we sing and bless this place.From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."William Shakespeare.

From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."

William Shakespeare.

ICome unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Court'sied when you have and kiss'd,(The wild waves whist)Foot it featly here and there;And sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow, wow,The watch-dog's bark:Bow, wow,Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!IIWhere the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip's bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat's back I do fly,After summer merrily.Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!IIIFull fathom five thy father lies;Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fadeBut doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell!William Shakespeare.From "The Tempest."

Come unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Court'sied when you have and kiss'd,(The wild waves whist)Foot it featly here and there;And sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow, wow,The watch-dog's bark:Bow, wow,Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip's bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat's back I do fly,After summer merrily.Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!

III

Full fathom five thy father lies;Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fadeBut doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange.Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell!

William Shakespeare.

From "The Tempest."

Orpheus with his lute made trees,And the mountain tops that freeze,Bow themselves when he did sing:To his music, plants and flowersEver sprung; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.Every thing that heard him play,Even the billows of the sea,Hung their heads, and then lay by.In sweet music is such art,Killing care and grief of heartFall asleep or hearing, die.William Shakespeare.From "King Henry VIII."

Orpheus with his lute made trees,And the mountain tops that freeze,Bow themselves when he did sing:To his music, plants and flowersEver sprung; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play,Even the billows of the sea,Hung their heads, and then lay by.In sweet music is such art,Killing care and grief of heartFall asleep or hearing, die.

William Shakespeare.

From "King Henry VIII."

(He) quickly arms him for the field,A little cockle-shell his shield,Which he could very bravely wield,Yet could it not be piersed:His spear a bent both stiff and strong,And well near of two inches long;The pile was of a horsefly's tongue,Whose sharpness naught reversed.And put him on a coat of mail,Which was of a fish's scale,That when his foe should him assail,No point should be prevailing.His rapier was a hornet's sting,It was a very dangerous thing;For if he chanc'd to hurt the king,It would be long in healing.His helmet was a beetle's head,Most horrible and full of dread,That able was to strike one dead,Yet it did well become him:And for a plume a horse's hair,Which being tosséd by the air,Had force to strike his foe with fear,And turn his weapon from him.Himself he on an earwig set,Yet scarce he on his back could get,So oft and high he did curvetEre he himself could settle:He made him turn, and stop, and bound,To gallop, and to trot the round,He scarce could stand on any ground,He was so full of mettle.Michael Drayton.From "Nymphidia."

And put him on a coat of mail,Which was of a fish's scale,That when his foe should him assail,No point should be prevailing.His rapier was a hornet's sting,It was a very dangerous thing;For if he chanc'd to hurt the king,It would be long in healing.

His helmet was a beetle's head,Most horrible and full of dread,That able was to strike one dead,Yet it did well become him:And for a plume a horse's hair,Which being tosséd by the air,Had force to strike his foe with fear,And turn his weapon from him.

Himself he on an earwig set,Yet scarce he on his back could get,So oft and high he did curvetEre he himself could settle:He made him turn, and stop, and bound,To gallop, and to trot the round,He scarce could stand on any ground,He was so full of mettle.

Michael Drayton.

From "Nymphidia."

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep.Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess, excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear, when day did close;Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess, excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess, excellently bright.Ben Jonson.From "Cynthia's Revels."

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep.Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear, when day did close;Bless us then with wishèd sight,Goddess, excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess, excellently bright.

Ben Jonson.

From "Cynthia's Revels."

* * * *Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles.Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Come, and trip it as you goOn the light fantastic toe,And in thy right hand lead with theeThe Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honor due,Mirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with thee,In unreprovèd pleasures free;To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-tower in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to come in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good-morrow,Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,Or the twisted Eglantine:While the Cock with lively dinScatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the Barn-door,Stoutly struts his Dames before:Oft listening how the Hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill:Some time walking not unseenBy Hedgerow Elms, on Hillocks green,Right against the Eastern gate,Where the great Sun begins his state,Robed in flames and Amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight.While the Plowman near at handWhistles o'er the furrowed land,And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,And the Mower whets his scythe,And every Shepherd tells his taleUnder the Hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the landskip round it measures,Russet Lawns, and Fallows gray,Where the nibbling flock do stray,Mountains on whose barren breastThe laboring clouds do often rest,Meadows trim with Daisies pied,Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.Towers and Battlements it seesBosomed high in tufted Trees,Where perhaps some beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,From betwixt two aged Oaks,Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,Are at their savory dinner setOf Herbs, and other Country Messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her Bower she leavesWith Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tanned Haycock in the Mead.Sometimes with secure delightThe upland Hamlets will invite,When the merry Bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the Checkered shade;And young and old come forth to playOn a Sunshine Holy-dayTill the livelong daylight fail;Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,With stories told of many a feat,How Fairy Mab the junkets eat,She was pinched, and pulled, she said,And he by Friars' Lanthorn led,Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat,To earn his Cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy Flail hath threshed the Corn,That ten day-laborers could not end;Then lies him down the Lubbar Fiend,And stretched out all the Chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength,And Crop-full out of doors he flings,Ere the first Cock his Matin rings.Thus done the Tales, to bed they creepBy whispering Winds soon lulled asleep.Towered Cities please us then,And the busy hum of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons boldIn weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,With store of Ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the prizeOf Wit, or Arms, while both contendTo win her Grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn Saffron robe, with Taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique Pageantry;Such sights as youthful Poets dreamOn summer eves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonson's learnèd sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespeare, fancy's child.Warble his native Wood-notes wild.And ever against eating Cares,Lap me in soft Lydian airs,Married to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linkèd sweetness long drawn out,With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running,Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heaped Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regained Eurydice.These delights, if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.John Milton.

* * * *

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles.Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Come, and trip it as you goOn the light fantastic toe,And in thy right hand lead with theeThe Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honor due,Mirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with thee,In unreprovèd pleasures free;To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-tower in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to come in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good-morrow,Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,Or the twisted Eglantine:While the Cock with lively dinScatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the Barn-door,Stoutly struts his Dames before:Oft listening how the Hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill:Some time walking not unseenBy Hedgerow Elms, on Hillocks green,Right against the Eastern gate,Where the great Sun begins his state,Robed in flames and Amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight.While the Plowman near at handWhistles o'er the furrowed land,And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,And the Mower whets his scythe,And every Shepherd tells his taleUnder the Hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the landskip round it measures,Russet Lawns, and Fallows gray,Where the nibbling flock do stray,Mountains on whose barren breastThe laboring clouds do often rest,Meadows trim with Daisies pied,Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.Towers and Battlements it seesBosomed high in tufted Trees,Where perhaps some beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,From betwixt two aged Oaks,Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,Are at their savory dinner setOf Herbs, and other Country Messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her Bower she leavesWith Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tanned Haycock in the Mead.Sometimes with secure delightThe upland Hamlets will invite,When the merry Bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the Checkered shade;And young and old come forth to playOn a Sunshine Holy-dayTill the livelong daylight fail;Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,With stories told of many a feat,How Fairy Mab the junkets eat,She was pinched, and pulled, she said,And he by Friars' Lanthorn led,Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat,To earn his Cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy Flail hath threshed the Corn,That ten day-laborers could not end;Then lies him down the Lubbar Fiend,And stretched out all the Chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength,And Crop-full out of doors he flings,Ere the first Cock his Matin rings.Thus done the Tales, to bed they creepBy whispering Winds soon lulled asleep.Towered Cities please us then,And the busy hum of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons boldIn weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,With store of Ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the prizeOf Wit, or Arms, while both contendTo win her Grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn Saffron robe, with Taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique Pageantry;Such sights as youthful Poets dreamOn summer eves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonson's learnèd sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespeare, fancy's child.Warble his native Wood-notes wild.And ever against eating Cares,Lap me in soft Lydian airs,Married to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linkèd sweetness long drawn out,With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running,Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heaped Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regained Eurydice.These delights, if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

John Milton.

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