Among the maidens of low degreeThe 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 showCrept after the people that went in a row.When Cicely came to the castle gateThe 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 scoreOf 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!”
Among the maidens of low degreeThe 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 showCrept after the people that went in a row.When Cicely came to the castle gateThe 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 scoreOf 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!”
Among the maidens of low degreeThe 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 showCrept after the people that went in a row.
When Cicely came to the castle gateThe 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 scoreOf 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!”
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 CicelyBecause her hair hung wild and free—“Related to us, miss, you must be!”Then Cicely, filling two plates of goldAs full of cherries as they could hold,Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold:—“Welcome to you! and toyou, Mr. Bear!Will you take a chair? willyoutake 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 showBoth the bears were seen to goUpon their hind legs to and fro!Now every year on the wedding-dayThe 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 pateWho 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?
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 CicelyBecause her hair hung wild and free—“Related to us, miss, you must be!”Then Cicely, filling two plates of goldAs full of cherries as they could hold,Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold:—“Welcome to you! and toyou, Mr. Bear!Will you take a chair? willyoutake 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 showBoth the bears were seen to goUpon their hind legs to and fro!Now every year on the wedding-dayThe 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 pateWho 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?
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 CicelyBecause her hair hung wild and free—“Related to us, miss, you must be!”
Then Cicely, filling two plates of goldAs full of cherries as they could hold,Walked up to the bears, and spoke out bold:—
“Welcome to you! and toyou, Mr. Bear!Will you take a chair? willyoutake 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 showBoth the bears were seen to goUpon their hind legs to and fro!
Now every year on the wedding-dayThe 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 pateWho 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 overheadHave thee in His keeping!”
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 overheadHave thee in His keeping!”
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 overheadHave 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!ThatImake 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—shewillbe 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!
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!ThatImake 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—shewillbe 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!
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!ThatImake 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—shewillbe 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 yearWhen 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 partShe 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 sayShe will be here for Christmas Day;And when I know that Aunt will come,Quam felix puer ego sum!
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 yearWhen 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 partShe 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 sayShe will be here for Christmas Day;And when I know that Aunt will come,Quam felix puer ego sum!
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 yearWhen 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 partShe 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 sayShe 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.
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.
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.
AHARVEST moon! Was ever seenA 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 dayOn road, and field, and tree.Silence and light! Will nothing speakIn the light and silence wide?O lady moon, your other cheekWhy 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 showedBehind the poplars green,When there came trotting down the roadA dog—the dog was lean;And you could tell, as he came by,He had no friend on earth,Nobody in whose partial eyeHe was of any worth.His tail hung down; his matted hairWas like a worn-out thatch;This dog came trotting up to whereThe 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 grewAgainst a sheltering wall;I said, “Here is a bed for you,With half-a-house and all.”But two hours after—I kept watchFrom my bedroom window-pane—I saw that on that moony patchHe had lain down again!And in the morning he was gone.—What charm was it he foundIn sleeping where the moonlight shoneIn 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 delightTo 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 meanA dog that was not fat?I saw a glint of elfin greenIn 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?
AHARVEST moon! Was ever seenA 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 dayOn road, and field, and tree.Silence and light! Will nothing speakIn the light and silence wide?O lady moon, your other cheekWhy 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 showedBehind the poplars green,When there came trotting down the roadA dog—the dog was lean;And you could tell, as he came by,He had no friend on earth,Nobody in whose partial eyeHe was of any worth.His tail hung down; his matted hairWas like a worn-out thatch;This dog came trotting up to whereThe 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 grewAgainst a sheltering wall;I said, “Here is a bed for you,With half-a-house and all.”But two hours after—I kept watchFrom my bedroom window-pane—I saw that on that moony patchHe had lain down again!And in the morning he was gone.—What charm was it he foundIn sleeping where the moonlight shoneIn 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 delightTo 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 meanA dog that was not fat?I saw a glint of elfin greenIn 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?
AHARVEST moon! Was ever seenA 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 dayOn road, and field, and tree.
Silence and light! Will nothing speakIn the light and silence wide?O lady moon, your other cheekWhy 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 showedBehind the poplars green,When there came trotting down the roadA dog—the dog was lean;
And you could tell, as he came by,He had no friend on earth,Nobody in whose partial eyeHe was of any worth.
His tail hung down; his matted hairWas like a worn-out thatch;This dog came trotting up to whereThe 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 grewAgainst a sheltering wall;I said, “Here is a bed for you,With half-a-house and all.”
But two hours after—I kept watchFrom my bedroom window-pane—I saw that on that moony patchHe had lain down again!
And in the morning he was gone.—What charm was it he foundIn sleeping where the moonlight shoneIn 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 delightTo 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 meanA dog that was not fat?I saw a glint of elfin greenIn 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!
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!
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 awayWhilst 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 awayWhilst 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.”
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 awayWhilst 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 awayWhilst 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.”
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 awayWhilst 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 awayWhilst 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!”
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!”
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,notin 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 tryTo 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.
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,notin 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 tryTo 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.
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,notin 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 tryTo 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.
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.
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.
WINIFRED waters sat and sighedUnder a weeping willow;When she went to bed she cried,Wetting all the pillow;Kept on crying night and day,Till her friends lost patience;“What shall we do to stop her, pray?”So said her relations.Send her to the sandy plains,In the zone called torrid:Send her where it never rains,Where the heat is horrid!
WINIFRED waters sat and sighedUnder a weeping willow;When she went to bed she cried,Wetting all the pillow;Kept on crying night and day,Till her friends lost patience;“What shall we do to stop her, pray?”So said her relations.Send her to the sandy plains,In the zone called torrid:Send her where it never rains,Where the heat is horrid!
WINIFRED waters sat and sighedUnder a weeping willow;When she went to bed she cried,Wetting all the pillow;
Kept on crying night and day,Till her friends lost patience;“What shall we do to stop her, pray?”So said her relations.
Send her to the sandy plains,In the zone called torrid:Send her where it never rains,Where the heat is horrid!
MIND that she has only flourFor her daily feeding;Let her have a page an hourOf the driest reading,—Navigation, logarithm,All that kind of knowledge,—Ancient pedigrees go with ’em,From the Heralds’ College.When the poor girl has enduredSix months of this drying,Winifred will come back cured,Let us hope, of crying.Then she will not day by dayMake those mournful faces,And we shall not have to say,“Wring her pillow-cases.”
MIND that she has only flourFor her daily feeding;Let her have a page an hourOf the driest reading,—Navigation, logarithm,All that kind of knowledge,—Ancient pedigrees go with ’em,From the Heralds’ College.When the poor girl has enduredSix months of this drying,Winifred will come back cured,Let us hope, of crying.Then she will not day by dayMake those mournful faces,And we shall not have to say,“Wring her pillow-cases.”
MIND that she has only flourFor her daily feeding;Let her have a page an hourOf the driest reading,—
Navigation, logarithm,All that kind of knowledge,—Ancient pedigrees go with ’em,From the Heralds’ College.
When the poor girl has enduredSix months of this drying,Winifred will come back cured,Let us hope, of crying.
Then she will not day by dayMake those mournful faces,And we shall not have to say,“Wring her pillow-cases.”
Therewas a Little Boy, with two little eyes,And he had a little head that was just the proper size,And two little arms, and two little hands;On two little legs this Little Boy he stands.Now, this Little Boy would now and then be crossBecause that he could only be the very thing he was;He wanted to be this, and then he wanted to be that;His head was full of wishes underneath his little hat!“I wish I was a drummer to beat a kettledrum,I wish I was a giant to say Fee-fo-fi-faw-fum;I wish I was a captain to go sailing in a ship;I wish I was a huntsman to crack a nice whip.I wish I was a horse to go sixty miles an hour;I wish I was the man that lives up in the lighthouse tower;I wish I was a sea-gull with two long wings;I wish I was a traveller to see all sorts of things.I wish I was a carpenter; I wish I was a lord;I wish I was a soldier, with a pistol and a sword;I wish I was the man that goes up high in a balloon;I wish, I wish, I wish I could be something else, and soon!”But all the wishing in the world is not a bit of use;That Little Boy this very day he stands in his own shoes;That Little Boy is still but little Master What-do-you-call,As much as if that Little Boy had never wished at all!He eats his bread and butter, and he likes it very much;He grubs about, and bumps his head, and bowls his hoop, and such;And his father and his mother they say, “Thank the gracious powers,Those wishes cannot wish away that Little Boy of ours!”
Therewas a Little Boy, with two little eyes,And he had a little head that was just the proper size,And two little arms, and two little hands;On two little legs this Little Boy he stands.Now, this Little Boy would now and then be crossBecause that he could only be the very thing he was;He wanted to be this, and then he wanted to be that;His head was full of wishes underneath his little hat!“I wish I was a drummer to beat a kettledrum,I wish I was a giant to say Fee-fo-fi-faw-fum;I wish I was a captain to go sailing in a ship;I wish I was a huntsman to crack a nice whip.I wish I was a horse to go sixty miles an hour;I wish I was the man that lives up in the lighthouse tower;I wish I was a sea-gull with two long wings;I wish I was a traveller to see all sorts of things.I wish I was a carpenter; I wish I was a lord;I wish I was a soldier, with a pistol and a sword;I wish I was the man that goes up high in a balloon;I wish, I wish, I wish I could be something else, and soon!”But all the wishing in the world is not a bit of use;That Little Boy this very day he stands in his own shoes;That Little Boy is still but little Master What-do-you-call,As much as if that Little Boy had never wished at all!He eats his bread and butter, and he likes it very much;He grubs about, and bumps his head, and bowls his hoop, and such;And his father and his mother they say, “Thank the gracious powers,Those wishes cannot wish away that Little Boy of ours!”
Therewas a Little Boy, with two little eyes,And he had a little head that was just the proper size,And two little arms, and two little hands;On two little legs this Little Boy he stands.
Now, this Little Boy would now and then be crossBecause that he could only be the very thing he was;He wanted to be this, and then he wanted to be that;His head was full of wishes underneath his little hat!
“I wish I was a drummer to beat a kettledrum,I wish I was a giant to say Fee-fo-fi-faw-fum;I wish I was a captain to go sailing in a ship;I wish I was a huntsman to crack a nice whip.
I wish I was a horse to go sixty miles an hour;I wish I was the man that lives up in the lighthouse tower;I wish I was a sea-gull with two long wings;I wish I was a traveller to see all sorts of things.
I wish I was a carpenter; I wish I was a lord;I wish I was a soldier, with a pistol and a sword;I wish I was the man that goes up high in a balloon;I wish, I wish, I wish I could be something else, and soon!”
But all the wishing in the world is not a bit of use;That Little Boy this very day he stands in his own shoes;That Little Boy is still but little Master What-do-you-call,As much as if that Little Boy had never wished at all!
He eats his bread and butter, and he likes it very much;He grubs about, and bumps his head, and bowls his hoop, and such;And his father and his mother they say, “Thank the gracious powers,Those wishes cannot wish away that Little Boy of ours!”
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore—No doubt you have heard the name before—Was a boy who never would shut a door!The wind might whistle, the wind might roar,And teeth be aching and throats be sore,But still he never would shut the door.His father would beg, his mother implore,“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,We reallydowish you would shut the door!”Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore;But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus GoreWas deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.When he walked forth the folks would roar,“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,Why don’t you think to shut the door?”They rigged out a Shutter with sail and oar,And threatened to pack off Gustavus GoreOn a voyage of penance to Singapore.But he begged for mercy, and said, “No more!Pray do not send me to SingaporeOn a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!”“You will?” said his parents; “then keep on shore!But mind you do! For the plague is soreOf a fellow that never will shut the door,Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!”
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore—No doubt you have heard the name before—Was a boy who never would shut a door!The wind might whistle, the wind might roar,And teeth be aching and throats be sore,But still he never would shut the door.His father would beg, his mother implore,“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,We reallydowish you would shut the door!”Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore;But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus GoreWas deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.When he walked forth the folks would roar,“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,Why don’t you think to shut the door?”They rigged out a Shutter with sail and oar,And threatened to pack off Gustavus GoreOn a voyage of penance to Singapore.But he begged for mercy, and said, “No more!Pray do not send me to SingaporeOn a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!”“You will?” said his parents; “then keep on shore!But mind you do! For the plague is soreOf a fellow that never will shut the door,Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!”
Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore—No doubt you have heard the name before—Was a boy who never would shut a door!
The wind might whistle, the wind might roar,And teeth be aching and throats be sore,But still he never would shut the door.
His father would beg, his mother implore,“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,We reallydowish you would shut the door!”
Their hands they wrung, their hair they tore;But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus GoreWas deaf as the buoy out at the Nore.
When he walked forth the folks would roar,“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore,Why don’t you think to shut the door?”
They rigged out a Shutter with sail and oar,And threatened to pack off Gustavus GoreOn a voyage of penance to Singapore.
But he begged for mercy, and said, “No more!Pray do not send me to SingaporeOn a Shutter, and then I will shut the door!”
“You will?” said his parents; “then keep on shore!But mind you do! For the plague is soreOf a fellow that never will shut the door,Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!”
Timothy Tight, Timothy Tight,Says he will neither have sup nor bite,Nor comb to his hair, nor sleep in his bed,Till he has done what he thinks in his head.What is it poor little Timothy thinksTo do before he eats, or drinks,Or combs, or sleeps? Why, Timothy TightThinks in his head to turn black into white!He caught a crow, and he tried with that,He tried again with a great black cat,He tried again with dyes and inks;He keeps on trying to do what he thinks!He tried with lumps of coals a score,He tried with jet, and a blackamoor,He tried with these till he got vext—He means to try the Black Sea next.
Timothy Tight, Timothy Tight,Says he will neither have sup nor bite,Nor comb to his hair, nor sleep in his bed,Till he has done what he thinks in his head.What is it poor little Timothy thinksTo do before he eats, or drinks,Or combs, or sleeps? Why, Timothy TightThinks in his head to turn black into white!He caught a crow, and he tried with that,He tried again with a great black cat,He tried again with dyes and inks;He keeps on trying to do what he thinks!He tried with lumps of coals a score,He tried with jet, and a blackamoor,He tried with these till he got vext—He means to try the Black Sea next.
Timothy Tight, Timothy Tight,Says he will neither have sup nor bite,Nor comb to his hair, nor sleep in his bed,Till he has done what he thinks in his head.
What is it poor little Timothy thinksTo do before he eats, or drinks,Or combs, or sleeps? Why, Timothy TightThinks in his head to turn black into white!
He caught a crow, and he tried with that,He tried again with a great black cat,He tried again with dyes and inks;He keeps on trying to do what he thinks!
He tried with lumps of coals a score,He tried with jet, and a blackamoor,He tried with these till he got vext—He means to try the Black Sea next.
Baby, baby, bless her;How shall mammy dress her?The summer cloudIs not too proudTo find soft wool to dress her.The bluebellIs a true bell,And will find the blue to dress her.The cherry-treeIs a merry tree,And will find the pink to dress her.The lily brightWill find the white,The beautiful white to dress her.The leaves in the woodAre sweet and good,And will find the green to dress her.The honeysuckle,With buds for a buckle,Will make a girdle to dress her.The heavens holdBoth silver and goldIn the stars, and they will dress her.
Baby, baby, bless her;How shall mammy dress her?The summer cloudIs not too proudTo find soft wool to dress her.The bluebellIs a true bell,And will find the blue to dress her.The cherry-treeIs a merry tree,And will find the pink to dress her.The lily brightWill find the white,The beautiful white to dress her.The leaves in the woodAre sweet and good,And will find the green to dress her.The honeysuckle,With buds for a buckle,Will make a girdle to dress her.The heavens holdBoth silver and goldIn the stars, and they will dress her.
Baby, baby, bless her;How shall mammy dress her?
The summer cloudIs not too proudTo find soft wool to dress her.
The bluebellIs a true bell,And will find the blue to dress her.
The cherry-treeIs a merry tree,And will find the pink to dress her.
The lily brightWill find the white,The beautiful white to dress her.
The leaves in the woodAre sweet and good,And will find the green to dress her.
The honeysuckle,With buds for a buckle,Will make a girdle to dress her.
The heavens holdBoth silver and goldIn the stars, and they will dress her.
Therewas a man so very tall,That when you spoke you had to bawlThrough both your hands, put like a cup,His head was such a long way up!But there was something even sadder,—His wife had to go up a ladderWhenever she desired a kiss—And he, alas, was proud of this!Said he, “I am the tallest manThat ever grew since time began,”As down on a house-top he sat;Well, hewastall; but what of that?
Therewas a man so very tall,That when you spoke you had to bawlThrough both your hands, put like a cup,His head was such a long way up!But there was something even sadder,—His wife had to go up a ladderWhenever she desired a kiss—And he, alas, was proud of this!Said he, “I am the tallest manThat ever grew since time began,”As down on a house-top he sat;Well, hewastall; but what of that?
Therewas a man so very tall,That when you spoke you had to bawlThrough both your hands, put like a cup,His head was such a long way up!
But there was something even sadder,—His wife had to go up a ladderWhenever she desired a kiss—And he, alas, was proud of this!
Said he, “I am the tallest manThat ever grew since time began,”As down on a house-top he sat;Well, hewastall; but what of that?
THIS monstrous man, as we shall see,Was punished for his vanity:He grew and grew,—the people placedA telescope to see his waist!He grew and grew—you could not seeWithout a telescope his knee;He grew till he was over-grown,And seen by over-sight alone!
THIS monstrous man, as we shall see,Was punished for his vanity:He grew and grew,—the people placedA telescope to see his waist!He grew and grew—you could not seeWithout a telescope his knee;He grew till he was over-grown,And seen by over-sight alone!
THIS monstrous man, as we shall see,Was punished for his vanity:He grew and grew,—the people placedA telescope to see his waist!
He grew and grew—you could not seeWithout a telescope his knee;He grew till he was over-grown,And seen by over-sight alone!
MY man JohnTo sea is goneAll in a wicker cradle;The cradle creaks,The cradle leaks,But John has got a ladle.
MY man JohnTo sea is goneAll in a wicker cradle;The cradle creaks,The cradle leaks,But John has got a ladle.
MY man JohnTo sea is goneAll in a wicker cradle;The cradle creaks,The cradle leaks,But John has got a ladle.