Samuel Francis Smith
My country, 'tis of thee,Sweet land of liberty;Of thee I sing;Land where my fathers died,Land of the pilgrims' pride,—From every mountain sideLet freedom ring.
My native country, thee,Land of the noble free,—Thy name I love;I love thy rocks and rills,Thy woods and templed hills;My heart with rapture thrillsLike that above.
Let music swell the breeze,And ring from all the treesSweet freedom's song;Let mortal tongues awake,Let all that breathe partake!Let rocks their silence break,—The sound prolong.
Our fathers' God,—to Thee,Author of liberty,To Thee we sing;Long may our land be brightWith freedom's holy light;Protect us by thy might,Great God, our King.
Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,"This is my own, my native land!"Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,As home his footsteps he hath turn'dFrom wandering on a foreign strand!If such there breathe, go mark him well;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concent'red all in self.Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
Joaquin Miller
Behind him lay the gray Azores,Behind the Gates of Hercules;Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas.The good mate said: "Now must we pray,For lo! the very stars are gone,Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?""Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"
"My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly, wan and weak."The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek."What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say at break of day:'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget their way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say—"He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"
They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:"This mad sea shows his teeth tonight.He curls his lip, he lies in wait,He lifts his teeth, as if to bite!Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word:What shall we do when hope is gone?"The words leapt like a leaping sword:"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"
Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck,And peered through darkness. Ah, that night.Of all dark nights! And then a speck—A light! A light! At last a light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.He gained a world; he gave that worldIts grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"
Felicia Browne Hemans
Look now abroad! Another race has fill'dThose populous borders—wide the wood recedes,And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;The land is full of harvests and green meads.—Bryant
The breaking waves dash'd highOn a stern and rockbound coast,And the woods against a stormy skyTheir giant branches toss'd.
And the heavy night hung darkThe hills and waters o'er,When a band of exiles moor'd their barkOn the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,They, the true-hearted, came;Not with the roll of the stirring drums,And the trumpet that sings of fame;
Not as the flying come,In silence and in fear;—They shook the depths of the desert gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,And the stars heard and the sea;And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rangTo the anthem of the free!
The ocean eagle soar'dFrom his nest by the white wave's foam;And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd,—This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hairAmidst that pilgrim band;—Why hadtheycome to wither here,Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,Lit by her deep love's truth;There was manhood's brow serenely high,And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?Bright jewels of the mine?The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?—They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay, call it holy ground,The soil where first they trod.They have left unstained, what there they found—Freedom to worship God.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled.Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set today a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more!
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the nood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!
O better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!
Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has wether'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deckYou've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult, O Shores, and ring, O Bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
Richard Lovelace
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such,As you, too, shall adore;I could not love thee, Dear, so much,Loved I not Honor more.
George Gordon Byron
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!
Robert Burns
O, my luve is like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June.O, my luve is like the melodieThat's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,So deep in luve am I,And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun!And I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel a while!And I will come again, my luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
William Shakespeare
Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And turn his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat—Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shunAnd loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets—Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
Allan Cunningham
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fastAnd fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast!And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.
"O for a soft and gentle wind!"I heard a fair one cry;But give to me the swelling breeze,And white waves heaving high:The white waves heaving high, my lads,The good ship tight and free;
The world of waters is our home.And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners!The wind is wakening loud.The wind is wakening loud, my boys,The lightning flashes free—The hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook.The purple petals, fallen in the pool,Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the earth and sky,Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew;But, in my simple ignorance, supposeThe selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.
William Cullen Bryant
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,And colored with the heaven's own blue,That openest when the quiet lightSucceeds the keen and frosty night.
Thou comest not when violets leanO'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,Or columbines, in purple drest,Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,When woods are bare and birds are flown,And frosts and shortening days portendThe aged year is near his end.
Then doth thy sweet and quiet eyeLook through its fringes to the sky,Blue—blue—as if that sky let fallA flower from its cerulean wall.
I would that thus, when I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart,May look to heaven as I depart.
Alfred Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.
John Keats
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the grasshopper's—he takes the leadIn summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights; for, when tired out with fun,He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never.On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
William Cullen Bryant
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of days,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast,—The desert and illimitable air,—Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone! the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year's dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
Alfred Tennyson
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O, sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river;Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Ben Jonson
It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make men better be,Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a day,Is fairer far, in May,Although it fall and die that night;It was the plant and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauty see;And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Sir Henry Wotton
How happy is he born and taught,That serveth not another's will;Whose armor is his honest thought,And simple truth, his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Untied unto the world by careOf public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,Nor vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise,Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray,More of his grace than gifts to lend,And entertains the harmless dayWith a religious book, or friend.
This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.
Arthur Hugh Clough
Say not, the struggle nought availeth,The labor and the wounds are vain,The enemy faints not, nor faileth,And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;It may be, in yon smoke concealed,Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,Seem here no painful inch to gain,Far back, through creeks and inlets making,Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,When daylight comes, comes in the light,In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,But westward, look, the land is bright.
Robert Burns
Is there for honest povertyThat hings his head, an' a' that?The coward slave, we pass him by,—We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,Our toils obscure, an' a' that,The rank is but the guinea's stamp,The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,Wear hodden gray, an' a' that?Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine—A man's a man for a' that.For a' that, an' a' that,Their tinsel show, an' a 'that:The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie ca'd "a lord,"Wha' struts an' stares, an' a 'that?Tho' hundreds worship at his word,He's but a cuif for a' that.For a' that, an' a' that,His riband, star, an' a' that,The man o' independent mindHe looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak' a belted knight,A marquis, duke, an' a' that!But an honest man's aboon his might,—Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!For a' that, an' a' that,Their dignities an' a' that,The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,(As come it will for a' that)That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.For a' that, an' a' that,It's comin' yet, for a' that,That man to man, the world o'er,Shall brithers be for a' that.
William Ernest Henly
Out of the night that covers me,Black as the Pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll,I am the master of my fate:I am the captain of my soul.
Edward Rowland Sill
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;And underneath the cloud, or in it, ragedA furious battle, and men yelled, and swordsShocked upon swords and shields. A prince's bannerWavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.A craven hung along the battle's edge,And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel—That blue blade that the king's son bears,—but thisBlunt thing—!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,And lowering crept away and left the field.Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shoutLifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,And saved a great cause that heroic day.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!—For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each tomorrowFinds us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act,—act in the living Present,Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,With a heart for any fate;Still achieving, still pursuing,Learn to labor and to wait.
A Dog, crossing a little rivulet with a piece of meat in his mouth, saw his own shadow represented in the clear mirror of the limpid stream; and, believing it to be another dog, who was carrying a larger piece of meat, he could not forbear catching at it; but was so far from getting anything by his greedy design, that he dropped the piece he had in his mouth, which immediately sank to the bottom, and was irrecoverably lost.
A Fox, very hungry, chanced to come into a vineyard, where there hung branches of charming ripe grapes; but nailed up to a trellis so high that he leaped till he quite tired himself without being able to reach one of them. At last, "Let who will take them!" says he; "they are but green and sour; so I will even let them alone."
A Hare laughed at a Tortoise upon account of his slowness, and vainly boasted her own great speed in running. "Let us make a match," replied the Tortoise; "I will run with you five miles for a wager, and the fox yonder shall be the umpire of the race." The Hare agreed; and away they both started together. But the Hare, by reason of her exceeding swiftness, outran the Tortoise to such a degree, that she made a jest of the matter; and thinking herself sure of the race, squatted in a tuft of fern that grew by the way, and took a nap, thinking that, if the Tortoise went by, she could at any time overtake him with all the ease imaginable. In the meanwhile the Tortoise came jogging on with slow but continued motion; and the Hare out of a too great security and confidence of victory, oversleeping herself, the Tortoise arrived at the end of the race first.
A certain Shepherd's Boy kept his sheep upon a common, and in sport and wantonness would often cry out, "The wolf! the wolf!" By this means he several times drew the husbandmen in an adjoining field from their work; who, finding themselves deluded, resolved for the future to take no notice of his alarm. Soon after, the wolf came indeed. The Boy cried out in earnest; but no heed being given to his cries, the sheep were devoured by the wolf.
The Husbandman set a net in his fields to take the cranes and geese which came to feed upon the new-sown barley. He succeeded in taking several, both cranes and geese, and among them a Stork, who pleaded hard for his life, and, among other apologies which he made, alleged that he was neither goose nor crane, but a poor harmless Stork, who performed his duty to his parents to all intents and purposes, feeding them when they were old, and, as occasion required, carrying them from place to place upon his back. "All this may be true," replied the Husbandman; "but, as I have taken you in bad company, and in the same crime, you must expect to suffer the same punishment."
A dispute once arose betwixt the North Wind and the Sun about the superiority of their power; and they agreed to try their strength upon a traveler, which should be able to get his cloak off first. The North Wind began, and blew a very cold blast, accompanied with a sharp, driving shower. But this, and whatever else he could do, instead of making the man quit his cloak, obliged him to gird it about his body as close as possible. Next came the Sun; who, breaking out from a thick watery cloud, drove away the cold vapors from the sky, and darted his warm, sultry beams upon the head of the poor weather-beaten traveler. The man growing faint with the heat, and unable to endure it any longer, first throws off his heavy cloak, and then flies for protection to the shade of a neighboring grove.
[Footnote: This and the following fable are fromThe Tortoise and the Geese, and Other Fables of Bidpai,retold by Maude Barrows Button.]
A Tortoise and two Geese lived together in a pond for many years.At last there came a drought and dried up the pond. Then theGeese said to one another,—
"We must seek a new home quickly, for we cannot live without water. Let us say farewell to the Tortoise and start at once."
When the Tortoise heard that they were going, he trembled with fear, and besought them by their friendship not to desert him.
"Alas," the Geese replied, "there is no help for it. If we stay here, we shall all three die, and we cannot take you with us, for you cannot fly."
Still the Tortoise begged so hard not to be left behind that theGeese finally said,—
"Dear Friend, if you will promise not to speak a word on the journey, we will take you with us. But know beforehand, that if you open your mouth to say one single word, you will be in instant danger of losing your life."
"Have no fear," replied the Tortoise, "but that I shall be silent until you give me leave to speak again. I would rather never open my mouth again than be left to die alone here in the dried-up pond."
So the Geese brought a stout stick and bade the Tortoise grasp it firmly in the middle by his mouth. Then they took hold of either end and flew off with him. They had gone several miles in safety, when their course lay over a village. As the country people saw this curious sight of a Tortoise being carried by two Geese, they began to laugh and cry out,—
"Oh, did you ever see such a funny sight in all your life!" And they laughed loud and long.
The Tortoise grew more and more indignant. At last he could stand their jeering no longer. "You stupid…" he snapped, but before he could say more he had fallen to the ground and was dashed to pieces.
A Crow flying across a road saw a Partridge strutting along the ground.
"What a beautiful gait that Partridge has!" said the Crow. "I must try to see if I can walk like him."
She alighted behind the Partridge and tried for a long time to learn to strut. At last the Partridge turned around and asked the Crow what she was about.
"Do not be angry with me," replied the Crow. "I have never before seen a bird who walks as beautifully as you can, and I am trying to learn to walk like you."
"Foolish bird!" responded the Partridge. "You are a Crow, and should walk like a Crow. You would look silly indeed if you were to strut like a Partridge."
But the Crow went on trying to learn to strut, until finally she had forgotten her own gait, and she never learned that of the Partridge.
A fox, almost with hunger dying,Some grapes upon a trellis spying,To all appearance ripe, clad inTheir tempting russet skin,Most gladly would have eat them;But since he could not get them,So far above his reach the vine,—"They're sour." he said; "such grapes as theseThe dogs may eat them if they please."—Did he not better than to whine?
The wolves are prone to play the glutton.One, at a certain feast, 'tis said,So stuffed himself with lamb and mutton,He seemed but little short of dead.Deep in his throat a bone stuck fast.Well for this wolf, who could not speak,That soon a stork quite near him passed.By signs invited, with her beakThe bone she drewWith slight ado,And for this skillful surgeryDemanded, modestly, her fee."Your fee!" replied the wolf,In accents rather gruff;"And is it not enoughYour neck is safe from such a gulf?Go, for a wretch ingrate,Nor tempt again your fate!"
Joseph Jacobs
An old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence. "What," said she, "shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go to market, and buy a little pig."
As she was coming home, she came to a stile: but the piggy wouldn't go over the stile.
She went a little further, and she met a dog. So she said to him: "Dog! dog! bite pig; piggy won't go over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the dog wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a stick. So she said: "Stick! stick! beat dog! dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the stick wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a fire. So she said: "Fire! fire! burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the fire wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met some water. So she said:"Water! water! quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won'tbeat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; andI shan't get home tonight." But the water wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met an ox. So she said: "Ox! ox! drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the ox wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a butcher. So she said: "Butcher! butcher! kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the butcher wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a rope. So she said: "Rope! rope! hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the rope wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a rat. So she said: "Rat! rat! gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the rat wouldn't.
She went a little further, and she met a cat. So she said: "Cat! cat! kill rat; rat won't gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I shan't get home tonight." But the cat said to her, "If you will go to yonder cow and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat." So away went the old woman to the cow.
But the cow said to her: "If you will go to yonder haystack and fetch me a handful of hay, I'll give you the milk." So away went the old woman to the haystack; and she brought the hay to the cow.
As soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat.
As soon as the cat had lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; the rat began to gnaw the rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; the butcher began to kill the ox; the ox began to drink the water; the water began to quench the fire; the fire began to burn the stick; the stick began to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the pig; the little pig in fright jumped over the stile; and so the old woman got home that night.
Joseph Jacobs
There was once an old sow with three little pigs, and as she had not enough to keep them, she sent them out to seek their fortune. The first that went off met a man with a bundle of straw, and said to him:
"Please, man, give me that straw to build me a house."
Which the man did, and the little pig built a house with it.Presently came along a wolf, and knocked at the door, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
To which the pig answered:
"No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin."
The wolf then answered to that:
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."
So he huffed, and he puffed, and he blew his house in, and ate up the little pig.
The second little pig met a man with a bundle of furze, and said:
"Please, man, give me that furze to build a house."
Which the man did, and the pig built his house. Then along came the wolf, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
"No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin."
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."
So he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and at last he blew the house in, and he ate up the little pig.
The third little pig met a man with a load of bricks, and said:
"Please, man, give me those bricks to build a house with."
So the man gave him the bricks, and he built his house with them. So the wolf came, as he did to the other little pigs, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
"No, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin."
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."
Well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed and huffed; but he couldnotget the house down. When he found that he could not, with all his huffing and puffing, blow the house down, he said:
"Little pig, I know where there is a nice field of turnips."
"Where?" said the little pig.
"Oh, in Mr. Smith's Home-field, and if you will be ready tomorrow morning, I will call for you, and we will go together and get some for dinner."
"Very well," said the little pig, "I will be ready. What time do you mean to go?"
"Oh, at six o'clock."
Well, the little pig got up at five, and got the turnips before the wolf came (which he did about six), who said:
"Little pig, are you ready?"
The little pig said: "Ready? I have been and come back again, and got a nice potful for dinner."
The wolf felt very angry at this, but thought that he would be up to the little pig somehow or other, so he said:
"Little pig, I know where there is a nice apple tree."
"Where?" said the pig.
"Down at Merry-garden," replied the wolf, "and if you will not deceive me, I will come for you at five o'clock tomorrow and get some apples."
Well, the little pig bustled up the next morning at four o'clock, and went for the apples, hoping to get back before the wolf came; but he had further to go, and had to climb the tree, so that just as he was coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming, which, as you may suppose, frightened him very much. When the wolf came up, he said:
"Little pig, what! are you here before me? Are they nice apples?"
"Yes, very," said the little pig. "I will throw you down one."
And he threw it so far, that, while the wolf was gone to pick it up, the little pig jumped down and ran home. The next day the wolf came again, and said to the little pig:
"Little pig, there is a fair at Shanklin this afternoon. Will you go?
"Oh, yes," said the pig, "I will go; what time shall you be ready?"
"At three," said the wolf. So the little pig went off before the time as usual, and got to the fair, and bought a butter churn, which he was going home with when he saw the wolf coming. Then he could not tell what to do. So he got into the churn to hide, and by so doing turned it round, and it rolled down the hill with the pig in it, which frightened the wolf so much that he ran home without going to the fair. He went to the little pig's house, and told him how frightened he had been by a great round thing which came down the hill past him. Then the little pig said:
"Hah, I frightened you, then. I had been to the fair and bought a butter churn, and when I saw you, I got into it and rolled down the hill."
Then the wolf was very angry indeed, and declared he would eat up the little pig, and that he would get down the chimney after him. When the little pig saw what he was about, he hung on the pot full of water and made up a blazing fire, and, just as the wolf was coming down, took off the cover, and in fell the wolf; so the little pig put on the cover again in an instant, boiled him up, and ate him for supper, and lived happy ever afterwards.
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
Hans had served his master seven years, and at last said to him, "Master, my time is up; I should like to go home and see my mother; so give me my wages." And the master said, "You have been a faithful and good servant, so your pay shall be handsome." Then he gave him a piece of silver that was as big as his head.
Hans took out his pocket handkerchief, put the piece of silver into it, threw it over his shoulder, and jogged off homewards. As he went lazily on, dragging one foot after the other, a man came in sight, trotting along gayly on a capital horse. "Ah!" cried Hans aloud, "what a fine thing it is to ride on horseback! he trips against no stones, spares his shoes, and yet gets on he hardly knows how." The horseman heard this, and said, "Well, Hans, why do you go on foot, then?" "Ah!" said he, "I have this load to carry; to be sure it is silver, but it is so heavy that I can't hold up my head, and it hurts my shoulders sadly." "What do you say to changing?" said the horseman; "I will give you my horse, and you shall give me the silver." "With all my heart," said Hans; "but I tell you one thing,—you'll have a weary task to drag it along." The horseman got off, took the silver, helped Hans up, gave him the bridle into his hand, and said, "When you want to go very fast, you must smack your lips loud, and cry 'Jip.'"
Hans was delighted as he sat on the horse, and rode merrily on. After a time he thought he should like to go a little faster, so he smacked his lips and cried, "Jip." Away went the horse full gallop; and before Hans knew what he was about, he was thrown off, and lay in a ditch by the roadside; and his horse would have run off, if a shepherd who was coming by, driving a cow, had not stopped it. Hans soon came to himself, and got upon his legs again. He was sadly vexed, and said to the shepherd, "This riding is no joke when a man gets on a beast like this, that stumbles and flings him off as if he would break his neck. However, I am off now once for all; I like your cow a great deal better; one can walk along at one's leisure behind her, and have milk, butter, and cheese every day into the bargain. What would I give to have such a cow!" "Well," said the shepherd, "if you are so fond of her, I will change my cow for your horse." "Done!" said Hans merrily. The shepherd jumped upon the horse, and away he rode.
Hans drove off his cow quietly, and thought his bargain a very lucky one. "If I have only a piece of bread, I can, whenever I like, eat my butter and cheese with it; and when I am thirsty, I can milk my cow and drink the milk: what can I wish for more?" When he came to an inn, he halted, ate up all his bread, and gave his last penny for a glass of beer: then he drove his cow towards his mother's village; and the heat grew greater as noon came on, till he began to be so hot and parched that his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. "I can find a cure for this," thought he; "now will I milk my cow and quench my thirst;" so he tied her to the stump of a tree, and held his leather cap to milk into; but not a drop was to be had.
While he was trying his luck and managing the matter very clumsily, the uneasy beast gave him a kick on the head that knocked him down, and there he lay a long while senseless. Luckily a butcher soon came by, wheeling a pig in a wheelbarrow. "What is the matter with you?" said the butcher, as he helped him up. Hans told him what had happened, and the butcher gave him a flask, saying, "There, drink and refresh yourself; your cow will give you no milk, she is an old beast good for nothing but the slaughterhouse." "Alas, alas!" said Hans, "who would have thought it? If I kill her, what would she be good for? I hate cow beef, it is not tender enough for me. If it were a pig now, one could do something with it; it would, at any rate, make some sausages." "Well," said the butcher, "to please you I'll change, and give you the pig for the cow." "Heaven reward you for your kindness!" said Hans. as he gave the butcher the cow, and took the pig off the wheelbarrow, and drove it off, holding it by the string that was tied to its leg.
So on he jogged, and all seemed now to go right with him. The next person he met was a countryman, carrying a fine white goose under his arm. The countryman stopped to ask what o'clock it was; and Hans told him all his luck, and how he had made so many good bargains. The countryman said he was going to take the goose to a christening. "Feel," said he, "how heavy it is, and yet it is only eight weeks old. Whoever roasts and eats it, may cut plenty of fat off it, it has lived so well!" "You're right," said Hans, as he weighed it in his hand; "but my pig is no trifle." Meantime the countryman began to look grave, and shook his head.
"Hark ye," said he, "my good friend; your pig may get you into a scrape; in the village I have just come from, the squire has had a pig stolen out of his sty. I was dreadfully afraid, when I saw you, that you had got the squire's pig; it will be a bad job if they catch you; the least they'll do will be to throw you into the horse pond."
Poor Hans was sadly frightened. "Good man," cried he, "pray get me out of this scrape; you know this country better than I; take my pig and give me the goose." "I ought to have something into the bargain," said the countryman; "however, I will not bear hard upon you, as you are in trouble." Then he took the string in his hand, and drove off the pig by a side path; while Hans went on the way homewards free from care.
As he came to the last village, he saw a scissors grinder, with his wheel, working away, and singing. Hans stood looking for a while, and at last said, "You must be well off, master grinder, you seem so happy at your work." "Yes," said the other, "mine is a golden trade; a good grinder never puts his hand in his pocket without finding money in it:—but where did you get that beautiful goose?" "I did not buy it, but changed a pig for it." "And where did you get the pig?" "I gave a cow for it." "And the cow?" "I gave a horse for it." "And the horse?" "I gave a piece of silver as big as my head for that." "And the silver?" "Oh, I worked hard for that seven long years." "You have thriven well in the world hitherto," said the grinder; "now if you could find money in your pocket whenever you put your hand into it, your fortune would be made." "Very true: but how is that to be managed?" "You must turn grinder like me," said the other: "you only want a grindstone; the rest will come of itself. Here is one that is a little the worse for wear: I would not ask more than the value of your goose for it;—will you buy?" "How can you ask such a question?" replied Hans; "I should be the happiest man in the world if I could have money whenever I put my hand in my pocket; what could I want more? there's the goose!" "Now," said the grinder, as he gave him a rough stone that lay by his side, "this is a most capital stone; do but manage it cleverly, and you can make an old nail cut with it."
Hans took the stone and went off with a light heart; his eyes sparkled for joy, and he said to himself, "I must have been born in a lucky hour; everything that I want or wish for comes to me of itself."
Meantime he began to be tired, for he had been traveling ever since daybreak; he was hungry, too, for he had given away his last penny in his joy at getting the cow. At last he could go no further, and the stone tired him terribly; he dragged himself to the side of a pond, that he might drink some water and rest awhile; so he laid the stone carefully by his side on the bank: but as he stooped down to drink, he forgot it, pushed it a little, and down it went plump into the pond. For a while he watched it sinking in the deep, clear water, then sprang up for joy, and again fell upon his knees, and thanked heaven with tears in his eyes for its kindness in taking away his only plague, the ugly heavy stone. "How happy am I," cried he: "no mortal was ever so lucky as I am." Then up he got with a light and merry heart, and walked on free from all his troubles, till he reached his mother's house.
Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
One summer's morning a little tailor was sitting on his table by the window; he was in good spirits, and sewed with all his might. Then came a peasant woman down the street, crying, "Good jams, cheap! Good jams, cheap!" This rang pleasantly in the tailor's ears; he stretched his delicate head out of the window, and called, "Come up here, dear woman; here you will get rid of your goods." The woman came up the three steps to the tailor with her heavy basket, and he made her unpack the whole of the pots for him. He inspected all of them, lifted them up, put his nose to them, and at length said, "The jam seems to me to be good, so weigh me out four ounces, dear woman, and if it is a quarter of a pound that is of no consequence." The woman, who had hoped to find a good sale, gave him what he desired, but went away quite angry and grumbling. "Now God bless the jam to my use," cried the little tailor, "and give me health and strength;" so he brought the bread out of the cupboard, cut himself a piece right across the loaf and spread the jam over it. "That won't taste bitter," said he, "but I will just finish the jacket before I take a bite." He laid the bread near him, sewed on, and, in his joy, made bigger and bigger stitches.
In the meantime the smell of the sweet jam ascended so to the wall, where the flies were sitting in great numbers, that they were attracted and descended on it in hosts. "Hola! who invited you?" said the little tailor, and drove the unbidden guests away. The flies, however, who understood no German, would not be turned away, but came back again in ever increasing companies.
Then the little tailor lost all patience, and got a bit of cloth from the hole under his work table, and saying, "Wait, and I will give it to you," struck it mercilessly on them. When he drew it away and counted, there lay before him no fewer than seven, dead and with legs stretched out.
"Art thou a fellow of that sort?" said he, and could not help admiring his own bravery. "The whole town shall know of this!" And the little tailor hastened to cut himself a girdle, stitched it, and embroidered on it in large letters, "Seven at one stroke!" "What, the town!" he continued, "the whole world shall hear of it!" and his heart wagged with joy like a lamb's tail. The tailor put on the girdle, and resolved to go forth into the world, because he thought his workshop was too small for his valor.
Before he went away, he sought about in the house to see if there was anything which he could take with him; however, he found nothing but an old cheese, and that he put in his pocket. In front of the door he observed a bird which had caught itself in the thicket. It had to go into his pocket with the cheese.
Now he took to the road boldly, and as he was light and nimble, he felt no fatigue. The road led him up a mountain, and when he had reached the highest point of it, there sat a powerful giant looking about him quite comfortably.
The little tailor went bravely up, spoke to him, and said, "Good day, comrade, so thou art sitting there overlooking the wide-spread world! I am just on my way thither, and want to try my luck. Hast thou any inclination to go with me?" The giant looked contemptuously at the tailor, and said, "Thou ragamuffin! Thou miserable creature!"
"Oh, indeed?" answered the little tailor, and unbuttoned his coat and showed the giant the girdle. "There mayst thou read what kind of a man I am!" The giant read, "Seven at one stroke!" and thought that they had been men whom the tailor had killed, and began to feel a little respect for the tiny fellow. Nevertheless he wished to try him first, and took a stone in his hand and squeezed it together so that the water dropped out of it. "Do that likewise," said the giant, "if thou hast strength." "Is that all?" said the tailor, "that is child's play with us!" and put his hand into his pocket, brought out the soft cheese, and pressed it until the liquid ran out of it. "Faith," said he, "that was a little better, wasn't it?"
The giant did not know what to say and could not believe it of the little man. Then the giant picked up a stone and threw it so high that the eye could scarcely follow it. "Now, little mite of a man, do that likewise." "Well thrown," said the tailor, "but after all the stone came down to earth again; I will throw you one which shall never come back at all," and he put his hand into his pocket, took out the bird, and threw it into the air. The bird, delighted with its liberty, rose, flew away, and did not come back. "How does that shot please you, comrade?" asked the tailor.
"Thou canst certainly throw," said the giant, "but now we will see if thou art able to carry anything properly." He took the little tailor to a mighty oak tree which lay there felled to the ground, and said, "If thou art strong enough, help me to carry the tree out of the forest." "Readily," answered the little man; "take thou the trunk on thy shoulders, and I will raise up the branches and twigs; after all, they are the heaviest." The giant took the trunk on his shoulder, but the tailor seated himself on a branch, and the giant, who could not look round, had to carry away the whole tree and the little tailor into the bargain. He, behind, was quite merry and happy and whistled the song, "Three tailors rode forth from the gate," as if carrying the tree were child's play. The giant, after he had dragged the heavy burden part of the way, could go no further, and cried, "Hark you, I shall have to let the tree fall!" The tailor sprang nimbly down, seized the tree with both arms as if he had been carrying it, and said to the giant, "Thou art such a great fellow, and yet thou canst not even carry the tree!"
They went on together; and as they passed a cherry tree, the giant laid hold of the top of the tree where the ripest fruit was hanging, bent it down, gave it into the tailor's hand, and bade him eat. But the little tailor was much too weak to hold the tree; and when the giant let it go, it sprang back again, and the tailor was hurried into the air with it. When he had fallen down again without injury, the giant said, "What is this? Hast thou not strength enough to hold the weak twig?" "There is no lack of strength," answered the little tailor. "Dost thou think that could be anything to a man who has struck down seven at one blow? I leapt over the tree because the huntsmen are shooting down there in the thicket. Jump as I did, if thou canst do it." The giant made the attempt, but could not get over the tree, and remained hanging in the branches, so that in this also the tailor kept the upper hand.
The giant said, "If thou art such a valiant fellow, come with me into our cavern and spend the night with us." The little tailor was willing, and followed him. When they went into the cave, other giants were sitting there by the fire, and each of them had a roasted sheep in his hand and was eating it. The little tailor looked round and thought, "It is much more spacious here than in my workshop." The giant showed him a bed and said he was to lie down in it and sleep. The bed was, however, too big for the little tailor; he did not lie down in it but crept into a corner. When it was midnight, and the giant thought the little tailor was lying in a sound sleep, he got up, took a great iron bar, cut through the bed with one blow, and thought he had given the grasshopper his finishing stroke. With the earliest dawn the giants went into the forest, and had quite forgotten the little tailor, when all at once he walked up to them quite merrily and boldly. The giants were terrified; they were afraid that he would strike them all dead, and ran away in a great hurry.
The little tailor went onwards, always following his own pointed nose. After he had walked for a long time, he came to the courtyard of a royal palace, and as he felt weary he lay down on the grass and fell asleep. Whilst he lay there, the people came and inspected him on all sides, and read on his girdle, "Seven at one stroke!" "Ah!" said they, "what does a great warrior here in the midst of peace? He must be a mighty lord." They went and announced him to the King, and gave it as their opinion that if war should break out, this would be a weighty and useful man, who ought on no account to be allowed to depart. The counsel pleased the King, and he sent one of his courtiers to the little tailor to offer him military service when he awoke. The ambassador remained standing by the sleeper, waited until he stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, and then conveyed to him this proposal. "For this very reason have I come here," the tailor replied; "I am ready to enter the King's service." He was therefore honorably received, and a separate dwelling was assigned to him.
The soldiers, however, were set against the little tailor, and wished him a thousand miles away. "What is to be the end of this?" they said amongst themselves. "If we quarrel with him and he strikes about him, seven of us will fall at every blow; not one of us can stand against him." They came therefore to a decision, betook themselves in a body to the King, and begged for their dismissal. "We are not prepared," said they, "to stay with a man who kills seven at one stroke." The King was sorry that for the sake of one he should lose all his faithful servants, wished that he had never set eyes on the tailor, and would willingly have been rid of him again. But he did not venture to give him his dismissal, for he dreaded lest he should strike him and all his people dead and place himself on the royal throne. He thought about it for a long time and at last found good counsel. He sent to the little tailor and caused him to be informed that as he was such a great warrior, he had one request to make to him. In a forest of his country lived two giants, who caused great mischief with their robbing, murdering, ravaging, and burning, and no one could approach them without putting himself in danger of death. If the tailor conquered and killed these two giants, he would give him his only daughter to wife and half his kingdom as a dowry, likewise one hundred horsemen should go with him to assist him. "That would indeed be a fine thing for a man like me!" thought the little tailor. "One is not offered a beautiful princess and half a kingdom every day of one's life!" "Oh, yes," he replied, "I will soon subdue the giants, and do not require the help of the hundred horsemen to do it; he who can hit seven with one blow has no need to be afraid of two."
The little tailor went forth, and the hundred horsemen followed him. When he came to the outskirts of the forest, he said to his followers, "Just stay waiting here, I alone will soon finish off the giants." Then he bounded into the forest and looked about right and left. After a while he perceived both giants. They lay sleeping under a tree and snored so that the branches waved up and down. The little tailor, not idle, gathered two pocketfuls of stones and with these climbed up a tree. When he was halfway up, he slipped down by a branch until he sat just above the sleepers, and then let one stone after another fall on the breast of one of the giants. For a long time the giant felt nothing, but at last he awoke, pushed his comrade, and said, "Why art thou knocking me?" "Thou must be dreaming," said the other; "I am not knocking thee." They laid themselves down to sleep again, and then the tailor threw a stone down on the second. "What is the meaning of this?" cried the other. "Why art thou pelting me?" "I am not pelting thee," answered the first, growling. They disputed about it for a time, but as they were weary they let the matter rest, and their eyes closed once more. The little tailor began his game again, picked out the biggest stone, and threw it with all his might on the breast of the first giant. "That is too bad!" cried he, and sprang up like a madman, and pushed his companion against the tree until it shook. The other paid him back in the same coin, and they got into such a rage that they tore up trees and belabored each other so long that at last they both fell down dead on the ground at the same time. Then the little tailor leapt down. "It is a lucky thing," said he, "that they did not tear up the tree on which I was sitting, or I should have had to spring on to another like a squirrel; but we tailors are nimble." He drew out his sword and gave each of them a couple of thrusts in the breast, and then went out to the horsemen and said, "The work is done; I have given them both their finishing stroke, but it was hard work! They tore up trees in their sore need, and defended themselves with them, but all that is to no purpose when a man like myself comes, who can kill seven at one blow." "But are you not wounded?" asked the horsemen. "You need not concern yourself about that," answered the tailor. "They have not bent one hair of mine." The horsemen would not believe him, and rode into the forest; there they found the giants swimming in their blood, and all round about lay the torn-up trees.