The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLove-Songs of ChildhoodThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Love-Songs of ChildhoodAuthor: Eugene FieldRelease date: June 1, 2001 [eBook #2670]Most recently updated: March 12, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE-SONGS OF CHILDHOOD ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Love-Songs of ChildhoodAuthor: Eugene FieldRelease date: June 1, 2001 [eBook #2670]Most recently updated: March 12, 2014Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger
Title: Love-Songs of Childhood
Author: Eugene Field
Author: Eugene Field
Release date: June 1, 2001 [eBook #2670]Most recently updated: March 12, 2014
Language: English
Credits: Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE-SONGS OF CHILDHOOD ***
To Mrs. Belle Angler
Dearest Aunt:
Many years ago you used to rock me to sleep, cradling me in your arms and singing me petty songs. Surely you have not forgotten that time, and I recall it with tenderness. You were very beautiful then. But you are more beautiful now; for, in the years that have come and gone since then, the joys and the sorrows of maternity have impressed their saintly grace upon the dear face I used to kiss, and have made your gentle heart gentler still.
Beloved lady, in memory of years to be recalled only in thought, and in token of my gratitude and affection, I bring you these little love-songs, and reverently I lay them at your feet.
Eugene Field Chicago, November 1, 1894
CONTENTSTHE ROCK-A-BY LADY"BOOH!"GARDEN AND CRADLETHE NIGHT WINDKISSING TIMEJEST 'FORE CHRISTMASBEARD AND BABYTHE DINKEY BIRDTHE DRUMTHE DEAD BABETHE HAPPY HOUSEHOLDSO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO!THE SONG OF LUDDY-DUDTHE DUELGOOD-CHILDREN STREETTHE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOTTHE STORKTHE BOTTLE TREEGOOGLY-GOOTHE BENCH-LEGGED FYCELITTLE MISS BRAGTHE HUMMING TOPLADY BUTTON-EYESTHE RIDE TO BUMPVILLETHE BROOKPICNIC-TIMESHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKSTHE SHUT-EYE TRAINLITTLE-OH DEARTHE FLY-AWAY HORSESWING HIGH AND SWING LOWWHEN I WAS A BOYAT PLAYA VALENTINELITTLE ALL-ALONEYSEEIN' THINGSTHE CUNNIN' LITTLE THINGTHE DOLL'S WOOINGINSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON'S SILVER PLATEFISHERMAN JIM'S KIDS"FIDDLE-DEE-DEE"OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY
CONTENTS
THE ROCK-A-BY LADY
"BOOH!"
GARDEN AND CRADLE
THE NIGHT WIND
KISSING TIME
JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS
BEARD AND BABY
THE DINKEY BIRD
THE DRUM
THE DEAD BABE
THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD
SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO!
THE SONG OF LUDDY-DUD
THE DUEL
GOOD-CHILDREN STREET
THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT
THE STORK
THE BOTTLE TREE
GOOGLY-GOO
THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE
LITTLE MISS BRAG
THE HUMMING TOP
LADY BUTTON-EYES
THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE
THE BROOK
PICNIC-TIME
SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS
THE SHUT-EYE TRAIN
LITTLE-OH DEAR
THE FLY-AWAY HORSE
SWING HIGH AND SWING LOW
WHEN I WAS A BOY
AT PLAY
A VALENTINE
LITTLE ALL-ALONEY
SEEIN' THINGS
THE CUNNIN' LITTLE THING
THE DOLL'S WOOING
INSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON'S SILVER PLATE
FISHERMAN JIM'S KIDS
"FIDDLE-DEE-DEE"
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY
The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby streetComes stealing; comes creeping;The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet—She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,When she findeth you sleeping!There is one little dream of a beautiful drum—"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,And lo! thick and fast the other dreams comeOf popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum,And a trumpet that bloweth!And dollies peep out of those wee little dreamsWith laughter and singing;And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,The fairies go winging!Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?They'll come to you sleeping;So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,Comes stealing; comes creeping.
On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh"!Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared,And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared;And then his under lip came out and farther out it came,Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame"—But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby doBut laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!"He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and thenIn shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!"And I—of course I do it; for, as his progenitor,It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for!And it is, oh, such fun I am sure that we shall rueThe time when we are both too old to play the game "Booh!"
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden,Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;The posies they are good to him,And bow them as they should to him,As fareth he upon his kingly way;And birdlings of the wood to himMake music, gentle music, all the day,When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle,Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down;The little stars are kind to him,The moon she hath a mind to himAnd layeth on his head a golden crown;And singeth then the wind to himA song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town,When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.
Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?'T is a pitiful sound to hear!It seems to chill you through and throughWith a strange and speechless fear.'T is the voice of the night that broods outsideWhen folk should be asleep,And many and many's the time I've criedTo the darkness brooding far and wideOver the land and the deep:"Whom do you want, O lonely night,That you wail the long hours through?"And the night would say in its ghostly way:"Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!"My mother told me long ago(When I was a little tad)That when the night went wailing so,Somebody had been bad;And then, when I was snug in bed,Whither I had been sent,With the blankets pulled up round my head,I'd think of what my mother'd said,And wonder what boy she meant!And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd askOf the wind that hoarsely blew,And the voice would say in its meaningful way:"Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!"That this was true I must allow—You'll not believe it, though!Yes, though I'm quite a model now,I was not always so.And if you doubt what things I say,Suppose you make the test;Suppose, when you've been bad some dayAnd up to bed are sent awayFrom mother and the rest—Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"And then you'll hear what's true;For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:"Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!Yoooooooo!"
'T is when the lark goes soaringAnd the bee is at the bud,When lightly dancing zephyrsSing over field and flood;When all sweet things in natureSeem joyfully achime—'T is then I wake my darling,For it is kissing time!Go, pretty lark, a-soaring,And suck your sweets, O bee;Sing, O ye winds of summer,Your songs to mine and me;For with your song and raptureCometh the moment whenIt's half-past kissing timeAnd time to kiss again!So—so the days go fleetingLike golden fancies free,And every day that comethIs full of sweets for me;And sweetest are those momentsMy darling comes to climbInto my lap to mind meThat it is kissing time.Sometimes, maybe, he wandersA heedless, aimless way—Sometimes, maybe, he loitersIn pretty, prattling play;But presently bethinks himAnd hastens to me then,For it's half-past kissing timeAnd time to kiss again!
Father calls me William, sister calls me Will,Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill!Mighty glad I ain't a girl—ruther be a boy,Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy!Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake—Hate to take the castor-ile they give for bellyache!'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me,But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at!Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide,'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride!But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!"But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle,Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show,Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd knowThat Buff'lo Bill an' cow-boys is good enough for me!Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still,His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's becomeOf them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz,That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions meWhen, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys,Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys;So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's,An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes;Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men,An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again;But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree,Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!
I say, as one who never fearedThe wrath of a subscriber's bullet,I pity him who has a beardBut has no little girl to pull it!When wife and I have finished tea,Our baby woos me with her prattle,And, perching proudly on my knee,She gives my petted whiskers battle.With both her hands she tugs away,While scolding at me kind o' spiteful;You'll not believe me when I sayI find the torture quite delightful!No other would presume, I ween,To trifle with this hirsute wonder,Else would I rise in vengeful mienAnd rend his vandal frame asunder!But when her baby fingers pullThis glossy, sleek, and silky treasure,My cup of happiness is full—I fairly glow with pride and pleasure!And, sweeter still, through all the dayI seem to hear her winsome prattle—I seem to feel her hands at play,As though they gave me sportive battle.Yes, heavenly music seems to stealWhere thought of her forever lingers,And round my heart I always feelThe twining of her dimpled fingers!
In an ocean, 'way out yonder(As all sapient people know),Is the land of Wonder-Wander,Whither children love to go;It's their playing, romping, swinging,That give great joy to meWhile the Dinkey-Bird goes singingIn the amfalula tree!There the gum-drops grow like cherries,And taffy's thick as peas—Caramels you pick like berriesWhen, and where, and how you please;Big red sugar-plums are clingingTo the cliffs beside that seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.So when children shout and scamperAnd make merry all the day,When there's naught to put a damperTo the ardor of their play;When I hear their laughter ringing,Then I'm sure as sure can beThat the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.For the Dinkey-Bird's bravurasAnd staccatos are so sweet—His roulades, appoggiaturas,And robustos so complete,That the youth of every nation—Be they near or far away—Have especial delectationIn that gladsome roundelay.Their eyes grow bright and brighter,Their lungs begin to crow,Their hearts get light and lighter,And their cheeks are all aglow;For an echo cometh bringingThe news to all and me,That the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree.I'm sure you like to go thereTo see your feathered friend—And so many goodies grow thereYou would like to comprehend!Speed, little dreams, your wingingTo that land across the seaWhere the Dinkey-Bird is singingIn the amfalula tree!
I'm a beautiful red, red drum,And I train with the soldier boys;As up the street we come,Wonderful is our noise!There's Tom, and Jim, and Phil,And Dick, and Nat, and Fred,While Widow Cutler's BillAnd I march on ahead,With a r-r-rat-tat-tatAnd a tum-titty-um-tum-tum—Oh, there's bushels of fun in thatFor boys with a little red drum!The Injuns came last nightWhile the soldiers were abed,And they gobbled a Chinese kiteAnd off to the woods they fled!The woods are the cherry-treesDown in the orchard lot,And the soldiers are marching to seizeThe booty the Injuns got.With tum-titty-um-tum-tum,And r-r-rat-tat-tat,When soldiers marching comeInjuns had better scat!Step up there, little Fred,And, Charley, have a mind!Jim is as far aheadAs you two are behind!Ready with gun and swordYour valorous work to do—Yonder the Injun hordeAre lying in wait for you.And their hearts go pitapatWhen they hear the soldiers comeWith a r-r-rat-tat-tatAnd a tum-titty-um-tum-tum!Course it's all in play!The skulking Injun crewThat hustled the kite awayAre little white boys, like you!But "honest" or "just in fun,"It is all the same to me;And, when the battle is won,Home once again march weWith a r-r-rat-tat-tatAnd tum-titty-um-tum-tum;And there's glory enough in thatFor the boys with their little red drum!
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,In agony I knelt and said:"O God! what have I done,Or in what wise offended Thee,That Thou should'st take away from meMy little son?"Upon the thousand useless lives,Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives,Thy wrath were better spent!Why should'st Thou take my little son—Why should'st Thou vent Thy wrath uponThis innocent?"Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,Before mine eyes the vision spreadOf things that might have been:Licentious riot, cruel strife,Forgotten prayers, a wasted lifeDark red with sin!Then, with sweet music in the air,I saw another vision there:A Shepherd in whose keepA little lamb—my little child!Of worldly wisdom undefiled,Lay fast asleep!Last night, as my dear babe lay dead,In those two messages I readA wisdom manifest;And though my arms be childless now,I am content—to Him I bowWho knoweth best.
It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks,That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes;Then it's sleep no more for baby, and it's sleep no more for me,For, when he wants his dinner, why it's dinner it must be!And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado,While gran'ma laughs,And gran'pa laughs,And wife, she laughs,And I—well, I laugh, too!You'd think, to see us carrying on about that little tad,That, like as not, that baby was the first we'd ever had;But, sakes alive! he isn't, yet we people make a fussAs if the only baby in the world had come to us!And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do,Gran'ma, she laughs,Gran'pa, he laughs,Wife, she laughs,And I, of course, laugh, too!But once—a likely spell ago—when that poor little chickFrom teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick,You wouldn't know us people as the same that went aboutA-feelin' good all over, just to hear him crow and shout;And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he'd pull him through,Old gran'ma cried,And gran'pa cried,And wife, she cried,And I—yes, I cried, too!It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place,With his everlastin' crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face;The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere,And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care!No matter what our trouble is, when he begins to coo,Old gran'ma laughs,And gran'pa laughs,Wife, she laughs,And I—you bet, I laugh, too!
So, so, rock-a-by so!Off to the garden where dreamikins grow;And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes,And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheekAnd here is a kiss for the treasure that liesIn the beautiful garden way up in the skiesWhich you seek.Now mind these three kisses wherever you go—So, so, rock-a-by so!There's one little fumfay who lives there, I know,For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow;I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes,I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek.And here is a kiss for the dream that shall riseWhen the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skiesWhich you seek.Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe—So, so, rock-a-by so!And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go,Don't forget mother who loveth you so!And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes,And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek,And here is her kiss for the dreamland that liesLike a babe on the breast of those far-away skiesWhich you seek—The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow—So, so, rock-a-by so!
A sunbeam comes a-creepingInto my dear one's nest,And sings to our babe a-sleepingThe song that I love the best:"'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning—'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;And all day long'T is the same sweet songOf that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite,Luddy-Dud."The bird to the tossing clover,The bee to the swaying bud,Keep singing that sweet song overOf wee little Luddy-Dud."'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning—'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;And all day long'T is the same dear songOf that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite,Luddy-Dud."Luddy-Dud's cradle is swingingWhere softly the night winds blow,And Luddy-Dud's mother is singingA song that is sweet and low:"'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning—'T is little Luddy-Dud at night;And all day long'T is the same sweet songOf my nearest and my dearest heart's delight,Luddy-Dud!"
The gingham dog and the calico catSide by side on the table sat;'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plateAppeared to know as sure as fateThere was going to be a terrible spat.(I wasn't there; I simply stateWhat was told to me by the Chinese plate!)The gingham dog went "bow-wow-wow!"And the calico cat replied "mee-ow!"The air was littered, an hour or so,With bits of gingham and calico,While the old Dutch clock in the chimney placeUp with its hands before its face,For it always dreaded a family row!(Now mind: I'm only telling youWhat the old Dutch clock declares is true!)The Chinese plate looked very blue,And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"But the gingham dog and the calico catWallowed this way and tumbled that,Employing every tooth and clawIn the awfullest way you ever saw—And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!(Don't fancy I exaggerate—I got my news from the Chinese plate!)Next morning, where the two had satThey found no trace of dog or cat;And some folks think unto this dayThat burglars stole that pair away!But the truth about the cat and pupIs this: they ate each other up!Now what do you really think of that!(The old Dutch clock it told me so,And that is how I came to know.)
There's a dear little home in Good-Children street—My heart turneth fondly to-dayWhere tinkle of tongues and patter of feetMake sweetest of music at play;Where the sunshine of love illumines each faceAnd warms every heart in that old-fashioned place.For dear little children go romping aboutWith dollies and tin tops and drums,And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shoutTill bedtime too speedily comes!Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleetWith little folk living in Good-Children street.See, here comes an army with guns painted red,And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts;The captain rides gaily and proudly aheadOn a stick-horse that prances and snorts!Oh, legions of soldiers you're certain to meet—Nice make-believe soldiers—in Good-Children street.And yonder Odette wheels her dolly about—Poor dolly! I'm sure she is ill,For one of her blue china eyes has dropped outAnd her voice is asthmatic'ly shrill.Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet,Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street.'T is so the dear children go romping aboutWith dollies and banners and drums,And I venture to say they are sadly put outWhen an end to their jubilee comes:Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleetWith little folk living in Good-Children street!But when falleth night over river and town,Those little folk vanish from sight,And an angel all white from the sky cometh downAnd guardeth the babes through the night,And singeth her lullabies tender and sweetTo the dear little people in Good-Children Street.Though elsewhere the world be o'erburdened with care,Though poverty fall to my lot,Though toil and vexation be always my share,What care I—they trouble me not!This thought maketh life ever joyous and Sweet:There's a dear little home in Good-Children street.
Up yonder in Buena ParkThere is a famous spot,In legend and in historyYclept the Waller Lot.There children play in daytimeAnd lovers stroll by dark,For 't is the goodliest trysting-placeIn all Buena Park.Once on a time that beauteous maid,Sweet little Sissy Knott,Took out her pretty doll to walkWithin the Waller Lot.While thus she fared, from RavenswoodCame Injuns o'er the plain,And seized upon that beauteous maidAnd rent her doll in twain.Oh, 't was a piteous thing to hearHer lamentations wild;She tore her golden curls and cried:"My child! My child! My child!"Alas, what cared those Injun chiefsHow bitterly wailed she?They never had been mothers,And they could not hope to be!"Have done with tears," they rudely quoth,And then they bound her hands;For they proposed to take her offTo distant border lands.But, joy! from Mr. Eddy's barnDoth Willie Clow beholdThe sight that makes his hair rise upAnd all his blood run cold.He put his fingers in his mouthAnd whistled long and clear,And presently a goodly hordeOf cow-boys did appear.Cried Willie Clow: "My comrades bold,Haste to the Waller Lot,And rescue from that Injun bandOur charming Sissy Knott!""Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw,But smite them hide and hair!Spare neither sex nor age nor size,And no condition spare!"Then sped that cow-boy band away,Full of revengeful wrath,And Kendall Evans rode aheadUpon a hickory lath.And next came gallant Dady FieldAnd Willie's brother Kent,The Eddy boys and Robbie James,On murderous purpose bent.For they were much beholden toThat maid—in sooth, the lotWere very, very much in loveWith charming Sissy Knott.What wonder? She was beauty's queen,And good beyond compare;Moreover, it was known she wasHer wealthy father's heir!Now when the Injuns saw that bandThey trembled with affright,And yet they thought the cheapest thingTo do was stay and fight.So sturdily they stood their ground,Nor would their prisoner yield,Despite the wrath of Willie ClowAnd gallant Dady Field.Oh, never fiercer battle ragedUpon the Waller Lot,And never blood more freely flowedThan flowed for Sissy Knott!An Injun chief of monstrous sizeGot Kendall Evans down,And Robbie James was soon o'erthrownBy one of great renown.And Dady Field was sorely done,And Willie Clow was hurt,And all that gallant cow-boy bandLay wallowing in the dirt.But still they strove with might and mainTill all the Waller LotWas strewn with hair and gouts of gore—All, all for Sissy Knott!Then cried the maiden in despair:"Alas, I sadly fearThe battle and my hopes are lost,Unless some help appear!"Lo, as she spoke, she saw afarThe rescuer looming up—The pride of all Buena Park,Clow's famous yellow pup!"Now, sick'em, Don," the maiden cried,"Now, sick'em, Don!" cried she;Obedient Don at once complied—As ordered, so did he.He sicked'em all so passing wellThat, overcome by fright,The Indian horde gave up the frayAnd safety sought in flight.They ran and ran and ran and ranO'er valley, plain, and hill;And if they are not walking now,Why, then, they're running still.The cow-boys rose up from the dustWith faces black and blue;"Remember, beauteous maid," said they,"We've bled and died for you!""And though we suffer grievously,We gladly hail the lotThat brings us toils and pains and woundsFor charming Sissy Knott!"But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept,And still her fate reviled;For who could patch her dolly up—Who, who could mend her child?Then out her doting mother came,And soothed her daughter then;"Grieve not, my darling, I will sewYour dolly up again!"Joy soon succeeded unto grief,And tears were soon dried up,And dignities were heaped uponClow's noble yellow pup.Him all that goodly companyDid as deliverer hail—They tied a ribbon round his neck,Another round his tail.And every anniversary dayUpon the Waller LotThey celebrate the victory wonFor charming Sissy Knott.And I, the poet of these folk,Am ordered to compileThis truly famous historyIn good old ballad style.Which having done as to have earnedThe sweet rewards of fame,In what same style I did beginI now shall end the same.So let us sing: Long live the King,Long live the Queen and Jack,Long live the ten-spot and the ace,And also all the pack.
Last night the Stork came stalking,And, Stork, beneath your wingLay, lapped in dreamless slumber,The tiniest little thing!From Babyland, out yonderBeside a silver sea,You brought a priceless treasureAs gift to mine and me!Last night my dear one listened—And, wife, you knew the cry—The dear old Stork has sought our homeA many times gone by!And in your gentle bosomI found the pretty thingThat from the realm out yonderOur friend the Stork did bring.Last night a babe awakened,And, babe, how strange and newMust seem the home and peopleThe Stork has brought you to;And yet methinks you like them—You neither stare nor weep,But closer to my dear oneYou cuddle, and you sleep!Last night my heart grew fonder—O happy heart of mine,Sing of the inspirationsThat round my pathway shine!And sing your sweetest love-songTo this dear nestling weeThe Stork from 'Way-Out-YonderHath brought to mine and me!