The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Mother's Nursery Songs

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Mother's Nursery SongsThis 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: The Mother's Nursery SongsAuthor: Thomas HastingsRelease date: April 29, 2013 [eBook #42612]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Veronika Redfern, David Edwards and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive). Music transcribed by VeronikaRedfern.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MOTHER'S NURSERY SONGS ***

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: The Mother's Nursery SongsAuthor: Thomas HastingsRelease date: April 29, 2013 [eBook #42612]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Veronika Redfern, David Edwards and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive). Music transcribed by VeronikaRedfern.

Title: The Mother's Nursery Songs

Author: Thomas Hastings

Release date: April 29, 2013 [eBook #42612]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Veronika Redfern, David Edwards and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive). Music transcribed by VeronikaRedfern.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MOTHER'S NURSERY SONGS ***

PREFACE.—INTRODUCTION.PART I. THE CRADLE.—PART II. THE NURSERY.—PART III. THE CLASS ROOM.—PART IV. THE ALTAR.Each song contains a link to an audio (MIDI) file. The [Listen] links are located directly following the title of each song.PNGs have been provided for the reader's convenience to facilitate printing of the songs for practice or performance. To download, please click on the corresponding page number to the right of each page.For additional Transcriber's Notes,click here.

PREFACE.—INTRODUCTION.

PART I. THE CRADLE.—PART II. THE NURSERY.—PART III. THE CLASS ROOM.—PART IV. THE ALTAR.

Each song contains a link to an audio (MIDI) file. The [Listen] links are located directly following the title of each song.

PNGs have been provided for the reader's convenience to facilitate printing of the songs for practice or performance. To download, please click on the corresponding page number to the right of each page.

For additional Transcriber's Notes,click here.

THEMOTHER'SNURSERY SONGS.BYTHOMAS HASTINGS,AUTHOR OF "DISSERTATION ON MUSICAL TASTE"—ONE OF THE COMPILERS OF "MUSICA SACRA"—"SPIRITUAL SONGS"—"INFANT MINSTREL," &c. &c.Family Picture from Title PageNEW-YORK:PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. HAVEN,148,NASSAU STREET.——1835.

BYTHOMAS HASTINGS,AUTHOR OF "DISSERTATION ON MUSICAL TASTE"—ONE OF THE COMPILERS OF "MUSICA SACRA"—"SPIRITUAL SONGS"—"INFANT MINSTREL," &c. &c.

Family Picture from Title Page

NEW-YORK:PUBLISHED BY JOHN P. HAVEN,148,NASSAU STREET.——1835.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1834, byJOHN P. HAVENS,in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for theSouthern District of New York.

The author of the following pages was one day conversing with a lady of some distinction, relative to the importance of teaching young children to sing, when a question arose—whether any thing could be done by the mother in this respect, during the period of the early infancy of her offspring? This inquiry, with the discussion that ensued, gave rise to the present publication.

Much, no doubt, can be done in early infancy, on the mere principle of imitation. Exercises for this purpose should be exceedingly simple; and, as far as possible, adapted to the infantile capacity. Great originality will hardly be expected in such a work as this: yet the materials here presented are, for the most part, such as have not before been published. A few extracts, have been furnished from the writings of Jane Taylor: And for many of the other little poems, the author is happy to acknowledge his obligations to several literary friends, among whom are the Rev. James Alexander, Professor of Rhetoric in Princeton College, New Jersey, Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut, well known as the author of occasional pieces of great poetic merit, and Mrs. Brown, of Munson, Massachusetts, the writer of several interesting anonymous hymns now in general circulation.

The object of the work, as will be readily inferred from its special characteristics, is to aid mothers in attuning the voices of their infant offspring, and inspiring them with the love of vocal music. When the Savior was on earth young children cried hosanna: and ere he is again revealed in the glories of the latter day—his praise shall be perfected out of the mouth of babes and sucklings. Yet they must first be instructed; and this work should be commenced by the mother.

It is a point now universally admitted among practical musicians, that all children, the deaf and dumb excepted, may be taught to sing; and that the difference of natural talent in this respect is, probably, not greater, than in reference to other departments of education. The faculty in question is never truly instinctive, but always in a great measure acquired. Nature furnishes us with organs, and with powers of perception. Cultivation must do the rest.

The fact that so large a portion of the present generation are unable to sing, is not to be attributed to physical deficiencies, but to unfortunate circumstances in the history of early education. In countries where music is continually taught in the primary schools, the children, as a matter of course, all learn to sing: and the same experiment, wherever it has been tried in our own country, has led to the same happy result. This circumstance alone shows the importance of early cultivation. If music is neglected till years of maturity, it will, in the majority of instances, continue to be disregarded through life. Infancy is undoubtedly the most favorable period for commencing the work. The foundation must be laid then if distinguished excellence is ever afterwards to be attained.

Adults, with voices of a most unpromising character imaginable, have sometimes, it is true, been taught to sing. The thing in its nature is not impracticable, but it is very difficult. It requires time and labor and perseverance, such as few, comparatively, are found to possess. But with young children the task is neither difficult nor laborious. The principle chiefly employed in forming the voice is imitation. The child, under favorable circumstances, acquires the management of its voice in singing just as it acquires in speaking the accurate pronunciation of the mother tongue. In both cases it is the imitative pupil of its mother, or nurse. Mothers should think of this, and not neglect to stir up the musical gift that is within them. Though that gift should be small, it might at least suffice to initiate the listening child in the practice of an important art which would afterwards be more successfully prosecuted.

One who wishes to acquire practical skill as a player on a musical instrument, must of necessity begin by drawing forth such tones or executing such passages, as can be mastered with the greatest facility; deferring such as are more difficult to a later period of cultivation. For all the purposes of vocal training, the mother may regard her infant child as such an instrument, not doubting but perseverance will accomplish the desired object.

There is a special season in infancy when children are full of mimickry. Then, a great portion of their daily employment, while in perfect health, is like that of the mocking-bird, to be imitating every pleasant sound that falls within their hearing. Their earliest efforts in this respect will necessarily be rude, but, by constant practice, their talent is found to improve; while, at the same time they acquire an increasing fondness for the exercise. Does not nature evidently point out this period as the precise time for making musical impressions upon the child that will be strong and indelible?

Let no one suppose that the voice is necessarily injured by early cultivation. If the little one is not induced to sing too much or too loud for its general health, there will be nothing to fear. Its voice will improve much in proportion to its practice; and when, in subsequent years, its intonation becomesfor a little period broken and discordant, it will be sure to be restored in due time. Every male child, sooner or later, must pass through such a change, as the unavoidable result of physical changes in the structure or conformation of its organs. Daily, moderate practice will be the obvious and certain remedy.

Previous to the period of infantile mimickry above mentioned, the affectionate mother will often have been soothing her child with the voice of song. When that period arrives, let her continue the practice in melodies as simple as those of numbersoneandtwo, in part first of this work. And as the child begins in the smallest degree to play the mimic, let her in turn become the imitator, so far as to seize upon every note which has resemblance to music, and thus encourage the child to repeat its efforts. The mother may thus gradually draw out and form its voice for music, just as she teaches it the articulations of the native tongue. The latter process she well understands. She begins with the simplest syllables only, and as she proceeds with those that are more difficult, the exercise is carefully adapted to the gradual progress of the child. Nothing is forced. Every thing is made pleasant and amusing to the little pupil: and the mother at every step is so amply rewarded for her assiduity, as to feel that her labor is but another name for delightful recreation.

The same course in reference to singing would be rewarded with the same success. Though the mother should be quite ignorant of the simplest principles of the science; her skill in minstrelsy would suffice for the work immediately before her. Let her also frame some simple phrases of melody, that are very similar to those she notices in the mimickry of her child, gradually heightening their character as the child improves its vocal powers. All these exercises perhaps will be inarticulate; and in some cases the child will make more rapid progress in song than in speech.

Of all the articulations that fall from the unpractised lips of infancy, the first and perhaps the sweetest that ever greet the maternal ear, are those ofba,pa,na,ma,ta,da, followed afterwards by their compoundspapa,mama, &c. The mother should not fail to set them to music in some such clauses as these that follow

ba, ba, ba, ba, pa, pa, pa, pa, na, na, na, na, ta, ta, da, da.[Listen]

[Listen]

A considerable portion of time, it is true, may elapse, before such clauses as these will be fully understood; and the child perhaps will incline to substitute other clauses in their place, and thus become its own composer. The only important point here, is to see that its tones are rendered musical.

In process of time let the musical passages be augmented somewhat after the following method, observing to sing them in a gutteral and not in a nasal manner:

>pa mama, pa mama, da na na, da na na, mama, papa, dada.[Listen]

[Listen]

father dear,mother dear,brother dear.[Listen to 1st] [Listen to 2nd] [Listen to 3rd]

[Listen to 1st] [Listen to 2nd] [Listen to 3rd]

The process from such passages as these, to such as constitute the first and second lullabys of this collection will be easy: and thenceforward less skill in adaptation will be required.

The preceding directions may suffice for the object before us: if followed with perseverance the child will begin to sing long before it is old enough to understand the rules of the art; and this, much to its own amusement and to the gratification of its affectionate parents. Some may doubt the practicability of the course here recommended; but certainly it is an easy one. Let them be persuaded to try it faithfully and perseveringly, and the author will consent to be responsible for its success.

As the songs under this head will be employed by the mother, chiefly in soothing her infant to sleep, or in mitigating its sufferings in hours of sickness or distress, it seems not necessary that all the language should be adapted to the infantile capacity. It may suffice that the words contain certain easy syllables or phrases, which, by their perpetual recurrence, make strong impressions upon the ear of the child. The exercise of singing should, however, be so managed as to afford pleasure to the child: for otherwise its taste will be injured.

[Listen]

Music

Lullaby, lullaby,Do not wake and weep;Softly in the cradle lie,Sleep O, sleep.Lullaby, lullaby,Hear thy mother's voice;Softly on her bosom lie,Then she'll rejoice.

Lullaby, lullaby,Do not wake and weep;Softly in the cradle lie,Sleep O, sleep.

Lullaby, lullaby,Hear thy mother's voice;Softly on her bosom lie,Then she'll rejoice.

[Listen]

Music

Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Near thee sits thy little brother,Close beside thee is thy mother,Sleep, baby, sleep.Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Israel's Shepherd watches o'er thee;No rude danger lies before thee,Sleep, baby, sleep.Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Germ of beauty, bud and blossom,Rest upon thy Savior's bosom,Sleep, baby, sleep.Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Life has many a raging billow—Rest upon thy downy pillow,Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Near thee sits thy little brother,Close beside thee is thy mother,Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Israel's Shepherd watches o'er thee;No rude danger lies before thee,Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Germ of beauty, bud and blossom,Rest upon thy Savior's bosom,Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,No longer weep;Life has many a raging billow—Rest upon thy downy pillow,Sleep, baby, sleep.

[Listen]

Music

Hushaby, hushaby,Baby, do not weep,On thy downy pillow lie,Softly, softly sleep.Hushaby, hushaby,Now thine eyelids close;While thy mother sitting by,Watches thy repose.Hushaby, hushaby,Think of no alarm,Angel spirits round thee fly,Guarding thee from harm.Hushaby, hushaby,Slumber sweet be given;On thy downy pillow lie,Precious gift from heav'n!

Hushaby, hushaby,Baby, do not weep,On thy downy pillow lie,Softly, softly sleep.

Hushaby, hushaby,Now thine eyelids close;While thy mother sitting by,Watches thy repose.

Hushaby, hushaby,Think of no alarm,Angel spirits round thee fly,Guarding thee from harm.

Hushaby, hushaby,Slumber sweet be given;On thy downy pillow lie,Precious gift from heav'n!

[Listen]

Music

Slumber sweetThine eyelids greetMy infant daughter dear:No footstep rudeShall here intrude,Nor stranger shall come near.Slumber sweetThine eyelids greetWithin thy mother's arms;She little tellsHow feeling stealsO'er all thy rising charms.Slumber sweetThine eyelids greetAnd gentle dreams be thine;To thee be givenThe bliss of heav'n,Where cherub angels shine.

Slumber sweetThine eyelids greetMy infant daughter dear:No footstep rudeShall here intrude,Nor stranger shall come near.

Slumber sweetThine eyelids greetWithin thy mother's arms;She little tellsHow feeling stealsO'er all thy rising charms.

Slumber sweetThine eyelids greetAnd gentle dreams be thine;To thee be givenThe bliss of heav'n,Where cherub angels shine.

[Listen]

Music

Softly in the cradle lie,Thy father's hope, thy mother's joy;Sweetly rest in balmy sleep,Do not wake to sigh and weep.Softly in the cradle lie;A mother's heart thy wants supply;She can rest if thou repose,Sweetly then thine eyelids close.Softly in the cradle lie,Frail bud of immortality;Soon thy blossom may unfoldFragrant mid the harps of gold.

Softly in the cradle lie,Thy father's hope, thy mother's joy;Sweetly rest in balmy sleep,Do not wake to sigh and weep.

Softly in the cradle lie;A mother's heart thy wants supply;She can rest if thou repose,Sweetly then thine eyelids close.

Softly in the cradle lie,Frail bud of immortality;Soon thy blossom may unfoldFragrant mid the harps of gold.

[Listen]

Music

O, do not wake, sweet little one,The night is dark and drear;All that a mother could have done,Has been perform'd with care.The pillow's soft on which you rest,And sweetly you have fed;Still lean upon your mother's breastYour weary little head.O, do not wake, sweet little one,Nor tremble with alarm;The Hand unseen you live uponPreserves you still from harm.

O, do not wake, sweet little one,The night is dark and drear;All that a mother could have done,Has been perform'd with care.

The pillow's soft on which you rest,And sweetly you have fed;Still lean upon your mother's breastYour weary little head.

O, do not wake, sweet little one,Nor tremble with alarm;The Hand unseen you live uponPreserves you still from harm.

[Listen]

Music

Welcome, welcome, little strangerTo this busy world of care:Nothing can thy peace endanger,Nothing now thy steps ensnare.Mother's heart is fill'd with pleasure,All her feelings are awake;Gladly would she, little treasure,All thy pains and suff'rings take.May'st thou, if design'd by heaven,Future days and years to see,Soothe her, make her passage even;Let her heart rejoice in thee.May her anxious cares and laborsBe repaid by filial love;And thy soul be crown'd with favorsFrom the boundless source above.Jane Taylor.

Welcome, welcome, little strangerTo this busy world of care:Nothing can thy peace endanger,Nothing now thy steps ensnare.

Mother's heart is fill'd with pleasure,All her feelings are awake;Gladly would she, little treasure,All thy pains and suff'rings take.

May'st thou, if design'd by heaven,Future days and years to see,Soothe her, make her passage even;Let her heart rejoice in thee.

May her anxious cares and laborsBe repaid by filial love;And thy soul be crown'd with favorsFrom the boundless source above.

Jane Taylor.

[Listen]

Music

How gently she sleeps,How silent she keeps,Her breath is as soft as the morn;While every new graceIn the dear one I trace,To my bosom in transport is borne.No sorrow she knows,This hour of repose,Nor hunger nor thirst nor disease;The world with its cares,And temptations and snares,Has never invaded her peace.I've linger'd awhile,To gaze on that smile,So sweetly that plays on her lips;Some innocent dreamOr some heavenly beam,Is visiting her while she sleeps.My lov'd one awake,Thy slumberings break,My daughter, 'tis time to arise;Thou joy of my heart,A lent blessing thou art,To be given again to the skies.

How gently she sleeps,How silent she keeps,Her breath is as soft as the morn;While every new graceIn the dear one I trace,To my bosom in transport is borne.

No sorrow she knows,This hour of repose,Nor hunger nor thirst nor disease;The world with its cares,And temptations and snares,Has never invaded her peace.

I've linger'd awhile,To gaze on that smile,So sweetly that plays on her lips;Some innocent dreamOr some heavenly beam,Is visiting her while she sleeps.

My lov'd one awake,Thy slumberings break,My daughter, 'tis time to arise;Thou joy of my heart,A lent blessing thou art,To be given again to the skies.

[Listen]

Music

FOR A CHILD DANGEROUSLY ILL.O dear one, how sad is that moan,How languid and sickly that eye;My bosom responds to each groan,And echos each deep-breathing sigh.Those fluttering pulsations I trace,The anguish that sits on thy brow,The paleness that covers thy face,Thy voice that is languid and low.O dear one, how deep is the grief,That withers my desolate heart;Kind Heav'n bring thee speedy relief,Or thou from thy mother wilt part.

FOR A CHILD DANGEROUSLY ILL.

O dear one, how sad is that moan,How languid and sickly that eye;My bosom responds to each groan,And echos each deep-breathing sigh.Those fluttering pulsations I trace,The anguish that sits on thy brow,The paleness that covers thy face,Thy voice that is languid and low.O dear one, how deep is the grief,That withers my desolate heart;Kind Heav'n bring thee speedy relief,Or thou from thy mother wilt part.

O dear one, how sad is that moan,How languid and sickly that eye;My bosom responds to each groan,And echos each deep-breathing sigh.

Those fluttering pulsations I trace,The anguish that sits on thy brow,The paleness that covers thy face,Thy voice that is languid and low.

O dear one, how deep is the grief,That withers my desolate heart;Kind Heav'n bring thee speedy relief,Or thou from thy mother wilt part.

[Listen]

Music

FOR A FATHERLESS CHILD.O my precious little gem,While I hold thee to my breast,May some heav'n inspiring dreamSoothe thy spirit into rest.But thy mother's heart is riv'n,Bitter anguish she must feel;Nothing but the balm of heav'n,Can her wounded spirit heal.Dark the night and dread the hourWhen thy father lay so low;When he felt the monster's pow'r,Who could tell thy mother's woe!But, thou image of his love,May'st in heav'n thy father see;Ere his spirit soar'd above'Twas his latest pray'r for thee.

FOR A FATHERLESS CHILD.

O my precious little gem,While I hold thee to my breast,May some heav'n inspiring dreamSoothe thy spirit into rest.But thy mother's heart is riv'n,Bitter anguish she must feel;Nothing but the balm of heav'n,Can her wounded spirit heal.Dark the night and dread the hourWhen thy father lay so low;When he felt the monster's pow'r,Who could tell thy mother's woe!But, thou image of his love,May'st in heav'n thy father see;Ere his spirit soar'd above'Twas his latest pray'r for thee.

O my precious little gem,While I hold thee to my breast,May some heav'n inspiring dreamSoothe thy spirit into rest.

But thy mother's heart is riv'n,Bitter anguish she must feel;Nothing but the balm of heav'n,Can her wounded spirit heal.

Dark the night and dread the hourWhen thy father lay so low;When he felt the monster's pow'r,Who could tell thy mother's woe!

But, thou image of his love,May'st in heav'n thy father see;Ere his spirit soar'd above'Twas his latest pray'r for thee.

[Listen]

Music

Safe sleeping on its mother's breast,The smiling babe appearsNow sweetly sinking into rest,Now wash'd in sudden tears:Hush, hush, my little baby dear,There's nobody to hurt you here.Without a tender mother's careThe little thing must die;Its chubby hands too feeble areOne service to supply:And not a tittle does it knowWhat kind of world it's come into.Full many a summer sun must glow,And lighten up the skies,Before its tender limbs can growTo any thing of size:And all the while the mother's eyeMust every little want supply.Then surely when each little limb,Shall grow to healthy size;And youth and manhood strengthen himFor toil and enterprize,His mother's kindness is a debtHe never, never will forget.Jane Taylor.

Safe sleeping on its mother's breast,The smiling babe appearsNow sweetly sinking into rest,Now wash'd in sudden tears:Hush, hush, my little baby dear,There's nobody to hurt you here.

Without a tender mother's careThe little thing must die;Its chubby hands too feeble areOne service to supply:And not a tittle does it knowWhat kind of world it's come into.

Full many a summer sun must glow,And lighten up the skies,Before its tender limbs can growTo any thing of size:And all the while the mother's eyeMust every little want supply.

Then surely when each little limb,Shall grow to healthy size;And youth and manhood strengthen himFor toil and enterprize,His mother's kindness is a debtHe never, never will forget.

Jane Taylor.

[Listen]

Music

FOR THE SPRING OF THE YEAR.Hush, hush,While flowrets blush,This blossom must repose,Thy mother's joy,My infant boy—No rival beauty[1]knows.Hush, hush,On every bush,While birds are singing shrill;My little child,So sweet and mild,Must now be soft and still.Hush, hush,While riv'lets gush,Refrain thy rising tears,For every grief,We'll seek relief,And soothe thy infant cares.Hush, hush,What feelings rushWithin a mother's breast;Be this her pray'rThat thou may'st shareIn heav'n's eternal rest.

FOR THE SPRING OF THE YEAR.

Hush, hush,While flowrets blush,This blossom must repose,Thy mother's joy,My infant boy—No rival beauty[1]knows.Hush, hush,On every bush,While birds are singing shrill;My little child,So sweet and mild,Must now be soft and still.Hush, hush,While riv'lets gush,Refrain thy rising tears,For every grief,We'll seek relief,And soothe thy infant cares.Hush, hush,What feelings rushWithin a mother's breast;Be this her pray'rThat thou may'st shareIn heav'n's eternal rest.

Hush, hush,While flowrets blush,This blossom must repose,Thy mother's joy,My infant boy—No rival beauty[1]knows.

Hush, hush,On every bush,While birds are singing shrill;My little child,So sweet and mild,Must now be soft and still.

Hush, hush,While riv'lets gush,Refrain thy rising tears,For every grief,We'll seek relief,And soothe thy infant cares.

Hush, hush,What feelings rushWithin a mother's breast;Be this her pray'rThat thou may'st shareIn heav'n's eternal rest.

[Listen]

Music

FOR A SICK CHILD.Weep not, O little one,Though thou art very ill,For thou art not aloneThy woes to feel.Each sigh of thine will heaveAn anxious mother's breast;Each accent of thy griefWill break her rest.Each tear that thou dost shedWill cause her grief to flow:Her heart, since thine doth bleed,Is bleeding too.One Hand alone can heal;That hand is ever near:O who can doubt His skill—Or gracious care!

FOR A SICK CHILD.

Weep not, O little one,Though thou art very ill,For thou art not aloneThy woes to feel.Each sigh of thine will heaveAn anxious mother's breast;Each accent of thy griefWill break her rest.Each tear that thou dost shedWill cause her grief to flow:Her heart, since thine doth bleed,Is bleeding too.One Hand alone can heal;That hand is ever near:O who can doubt His skill—Or gracious care!

Weep not, O little one,Though thou art very ill,For thou art not aloneThy woes to feel.

Each sigh of thine will heaveAn anxious mother's breast;Each accent of thy griefWill break her rest.

Each tear that thou dost shedWill cause her grief to flow:Her heart, since thine doth bleed,Is bleeding too.

One Hand alone can heal;That hand is ever near:O who can doubt His skill—Or gracious care!

[Listen]

Music

Mother dear, the baby cries,Where is the nurse?Every thing that sister triesMakes him only worse.Come, mother, come;Dear mother, come!Every thing that sister triesMakes him only worse.Mother dear, the baby cries,Is he not ill?Not a thing that brother triesEver keeps him still.Come, mother, come,Dear mother, come!Not a thing that brother triesEver keeps him still.Mother dear, the baby cries,What shall we do?In the cradle here he lies,Waiting for you.Come, mother, come,Dear mother, come!In the cradle here he liesWaiting for you.

Mother dear, the baby cries,Where is the nurse?Every thing that sister triesMakes him only worse.Come, mother, come;Dear mother, come!Every thing that sister triesMakes him only worse.

Mother dear, the baby cries,Is he not ill?Not a thing that brother triesEver keeps him still.Come, mother, come,Dear mother, come!Not a thing that brother triesEver keeps him still.

Mother dear, the baby cries,What shall we do?In the cradle here he lies,Waiting for you.Come, mother, come,Dear mother, come!In the cradle here he liesWaiting for you.

The songs of this department are introduced chiefly for children who are just beginning to entertain a few simple ideas and principles relative to things around them. The mother should commence with some of the easiest songs, and afterwards, as she proceeds with the more difficult ones, furnish the words with an occasional comment.

[Listen]

Music

Hark, hark,The merry lark,Beginning her morning song;Robin redbreastIs still in her nestAnd silent is her tongue.No, no,It will not do,Though Robin may lie in bed;"Early and bright"As soon as 'tis light"My mother to me has said—See, seeThe busy beeA going from flower to flower,Carries a sting,While under her wingShe holds her honied store.So, so—While busy too,In study or useful work;In many a sweetWhich we may meetSome poison'd sting may lurk.

Hark, hark,The merry lark,Beginning her morning song;Robin redbreastIs still in her nestAnd silent is her tongue.

No, no,It will not do,Though Robin may lie in bed;"Early and bright"As soon as 'tis light"My mother to me has said—

See, seeThe busy beeA going from flower to flower,Carries a sting,While under her wingShe holds her honied store.

So, so—While busy too,In study or useful work;In many a sweetWhich we may meetSome poison'd sting may lurk.

[Listen]

Music

Up in the morning, up my child,See the sun, how bright and mild;See the dew-drops every oneGlist'ning in the sun:Time for the dear one up to spring,While the merry bells do ring.Quick let me put your clean dress on,For the night is past and gone;Now another day is giv'n,By our Lord in heav'n:Now when the morning air you feelTo your heav'nly Keeper kneel.Praise to the Lord for morning light,Praise for safety through the night,While the birds are singing all,On the Lord we call:Thus in the morning we will praiseOur Redeemer all our days.

Up in the morning, up my child,See the sun, how bright and mild;See the dew-drops every oneGlist'ning in the sun:Time for the dear one up to spring,While the merry bells do ring.

Quick let me put your clean dress on,For the night is past and gone;Now another day is giv'n,By our Lord in heav'n:Now when the morning air you feelTo your heav'nly Keeper kneel.

Praise to the Lord for morning light,Praise for safety through the night,While the birds are singing all,On the Lord we call:Thus in the morning we will praiseOur Redeemer all our days.

[Listen]

Music

Come, arise from thy sleep,Through the green bushes peep,Birds sweetly are straying,Their bright plumes displaying,At dawn of day.Let us breath the fresh air,For the morning is fair,And the forest is ringingWith merry birds singingAt dawn of day.Come along for a talkOr a sweet morning walk,While the garden disclosesIts bright blushing roses,At dawn of day.But first to our KingLet us joyfully sing,And praises be paying,'Tis good to be prayingAt dawn of day.

Come, arise from thy sleep,Through the green bushes peep,Birds sweetly are straying,Their bright plumes displaying,At dawn of day.

Let us breath the fresh air,For the morning is fair,And the forest is ringingWith merry birds singingAt dawn of day.

Come along for a talkOr a sweet morning walk,While the garden disclosesIts bright blushing roses,At dawn of day.

But first to our KingLet us joyfully sing,And praises be paying,'Tis good to be prayingAt dawn of day.

[Listen]

Music

Father and mother, 'tis time to arise,Sun has arisen to brighten the skies;Every bird is singing high;Birds are glad, and so am I.Merrily, merrily those in the tree,Bluebird and robin are singing to me;Round the window see them fly;Birds are glad, and so am I.Glad little robin, you never can knowWho is the Maker that fashion'd you so;Yet you cannot weep or sigh;Birds are glad, and so am I.He who created the birds of the air,Securely will keep me from trouble and care:He has taught the birds to fly;Birds are glad, and so am I.

Father and mother, 'tis time to arise,Sun has arisen to brighten the skies;Every bird is singing high;Birds are glad, and so am I.

Merrily, merrily those in the tree,Bluebird and robin are singing to me;Round the window see them fly;Birds are glad, and so am I.

Glad little robin, you never can knowWho is the Maker that fashion'd you so;Yet you cannot weep or sigh;Birds are glad, and so am I.

He who created the birds of the air,Securely will keep me from trouble and care:He has taught the birds to fly;Birds are glad, and so am I.

[Listen]

Music

O wild is thy joy,[2]My affectionate boy,What visions of fancy come o'er thee?Thy spirit so proud,Thy laughter so loud—What transports are glit'ring before thee?Dost think of a dayThou mayst ramble and play,O'er the meadows, the forests, and mountains?Or in the sweet vale,'Mong the lilies so pale,By the side of the rills and the fountains?Some glim'rings of thoughtPerchance thou hast caught,While thy spirit within thee rejoices,Some simple delight,Some object of sightOr sound in the mingling of voices.O, brief is thy mirth,For the visions of earth,Like the shadows of noon-day, are flying:But joys that are pure,Shall forever endure,Though earth and its transports are dying.

O wild is thy joy,[2]My affectionate boy,What visions of fancy come o'er thee?Thy spirit so proud,Thy laughter so loud—What transports are glit'ring before thee?

Dost think of a dayThou mayst ramble and play,O'er the meadows, the forests, and mountains?Or in the sweet vale,'Mong the lilies so pale,By the side of the rills and the fountains?

Some glim'rings of thoughtPerchance thou hast caught,While thy spirit within thee rejoices,Some simple delight,Some object of sightOr sound in the mingling of voices.

O, brief is thy mirth,For the visions of earth,Like the shadows of noon-day, are flying:But joys that are pure,Shall forever endure,Though earth and its transports are dying.

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