What are the songs the mother sings?Of birds and flowers and pretty things;Baby lies in her arms and spiesAll his world in the mother's eyes.
What are the tales the mother tells?Of gems and jewels and silver bells;Baby lies in her arms and spiesAll his wealth in the mother's eyes.
What are the thoughts in the mother's mind?Of the gentle Saviour, loving and kind;Baby lies in her arms and spiesAll his heaven in the mother's eyes.
From breakfast on through all the dayAt home among my friends I stay,But every night I go abroadAfar into the land of Nod.
All by myself I have to go,With, none to tell me what to do—All alone beside the streamsAnd up the mountain sides of dreams.
The strangest things are there for me,Both things to eat and things to see,And many frightening sights abroad,Till morning in the land of Nod.
Try as I like to find the way,I never can get back by day,Nor can remember plain and clearThe curious music that I hear.
A lass that has many wooers oft fares the worst.A lazy sheep thinks its wool heavy.A little leak will sink a great ship.A living dog is better than a dead lion.A man of words, and not of deeds, is like a garden full of weeds.A man's house is his castle.A miss is as good as a mile.A penny for your thought.A penny saved is a penny got.A rolling stone will gather no moss.A small spark makes a great fire.A stitch in time saves nine.A tree is known by its fruit.
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When I was a little boy, I lived by myself,And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon the shelf;The rats and the mice did lead me such a life,I was forced to go to London to buy me a wife.
The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so narrow,I could not get my wife home without a wheelbarrow;The wheelbarrow broke, my wife got a fall,Down tumbled wheelbarrow, little wife, and all.
* * * * *
Where are you going, my pretty maid?"I'm going a-milking, sir," she said.May I go with you, my pretty maid?"You're kindly welcome, sir," she said.What is your father, my pretty maid?"My father's a farmer, sir," she said.
Say, will you marry me, my pretty maid?"Yes, if you please, kind sir," she said.Will you be constant, my pretty maid?"That I can't promise you, sir," she said.Then I won't marry you, my pretty maid!"Nobody asked you, sir!" she said.
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Who killed Cock Robin?"I," said the Sparrow,"With my bow and arrow,I killed Cock Robin."
Who saw him die?"I," said the Fly,"With my little eye,And I saw him die."
Who caught his blood?"I," said the Fish,"With my little dish,And I caught his blood."
Who made his shroud?"I," said the Beadle,"With my little needle,And I made his shroud."
Who shall dig his grave?"I," said the Owl,"With my spade and showl [shovel],And I'll dig his grave."
Who'll be the parson?"I," said the Rook,"With my little book,And I'll be the parson"
Who'll be the clerk?"I," said the Lark,"If it's not in the dark,And I'll be the clerk."
Who'll carry him to the grave?"I," said the Kite,"If 't is not in the night,And I'll carry him to his grave."
Who'll carry the link?"I," said the Linnet,"I'll fetch it in a minute,And I'll carry the link."
Who'll be the chief mourner?"I," said the Dove,"I mourn for my love,And I'll be chief mourner."
Who'll bear the pall?"We," said the Wren,Both the cock and the hen,"And we'll bear the pall."
Who'll sing a psalm?"I," said the Thrush,As she sat in a bush,"And I'll sing a psalm."
And who'll toll the bell?"I," said the Bull,"Because I can pull;"And so, Cock Robin, farewell.
Thou shalt have a little bedMade for thee, and overspreadWith brown leaves for coverlet,Which the tearful dew has wet.I, among the songs of Spring,Will miss the song thou didst not sing.
The kitten came this morning, and said,With a touch of her paw and a turn of her head?"Play, play with me!"
And Skye, the terrier, caught my hand,And tried to make me understand,—"Play, play with me!"
And Nelly nipped my shoulder quite hard,And then she went prancing around the yard—"Play, play with me!"
I played with them all! Now, wouldn't you play,If a little child, like me, should say,"Play, play with me?"
Piping down the valleys wild.Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:—
"Pipe a song about a lamb:"So I piped with merry cheer."Piper, pipe that song again:"So I piped; he wept to hear.
"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,Sing thy songs of happy cheer:"So I sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read."So he vanish'd from my sight;And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.
I have no name—I am but two days old.What shall I call thee?I happy am,Joy is my name.—Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!Sweet joy but two days old.Sweet joy I call thee,Thou dost smile,I sing the while,Sweet joy befall thee!
Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee,Gave thee life and bid thee feedBy the stream and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest cloth, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voiceMaking all the vales rejoice;Little lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little lamb, I'll tell thee,Little lamb, I'll tell thee.He is called by thy name,For He calls himself a Lamb:He is meek and he is mild,He became a little child,I a child and thou a lamb,We are called by His name.Little lamb, God bless thee,Little lamb, God bless thee.
Father! father! where are you going?Oh, do not walk so fast.Speak, father speak to your little boy,Or else I shall be lost.
The night was dark, no father was there;The child was wet with dew;The mire was deep and the child did weep,And away the vapor flew.
The little boy lost in the lonely fen,Led by the wandering light,Began to cry; but God, ever nigh,Appeared like his father in white;
He kissed the child, and by the hand led,And to his mother brought,Who, in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale,Her little boy weeping sought.
We are little airy creatures,All of different voice and features;One of us in glass is set,One of us you'll find in jet.T' other you may see in tin,And the fourth a box within.If the fifth you should pursue,It can never fly from you.
Every day brings a ship,Every ship brings a word;Well for those who have no fear,Looking seaward well assuredThat the word the vessel bringsIs the word they wish to hear.
I'm up and down, and round about,Yet all the world can't find me out;Though hundreds have employed their leisure,They never yet could find my measure.I'm found almost in every garden,Nay, in the compass of a farthing.There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,Can move an inch except I will.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;In a cowslip's bell I lie:There I couch, when owls do cry.On the bat's back I do fly,After summer, merrily:Merrily, merrily, shall I live nowUnder the blossom, that hangs on the bough.
Forgive and forget.Fortune helps them that help themselves.Give a thief rope enough, and he'll hang himself.Give him an inch, and he'll take an ell.Go farther and fare worse.Good wine needs no bush.Handsome is that handsome does.Happy as a king.Haste makes waste, and waste makes want, and want makes strife between thegood-man and his wife.He cannot say boo to a goose.He knows on which side his bread is buttered.
There is dew for the floweret,And honey for the bee,And bowers for the wild bird,And love for you and me.
There are tears for the many,And pleasure for the few;But let the world pass on, dear,There's love for me and you.
Impatient of his childhood,"Ah me!" exclaims young Arthur,Whilst roving in the wild wood,"I wish I were my father!"Meanwhile, to see his ArthurSo skip, and play, and run,"Ah me!" exclaims the father,"I wish I were my son!"
Her pretty feetLike snails did creepA little out, and then,As if they played at bo-peep,Did soon draw in again.
Here she lies, a pretty bud,Lately made of flesh and blood:Who as soon fell fast asleep,As her little eyes did peep.Give her strewings, but not stirThe earth that lightly covers her.
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,Full and fair ones; come and buy!If so be you ask me whereThey do grow, I answer, There,Where my Julia's lips do smile;There's the land, or cherry-isle,Whose plantations fully showAll the year where cherries grow.
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love!"In the winter they're silent—the wind is so strong;What it says, I don't know; but it sings a loud song.But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,And singing, and loving—all come back together,But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,The green fields below him, the blue sky above,That he sings, and he sings; and forever sings he—"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"
He sees an inch afore his nose.He takes the bull by the horns.He that fights and runs away may live to fight another day.He that goes a borrowing, goes a sorrowing.He that has but four and spends five has no need of a purse.He that knows not how to hold his tongue knows not how to talk.He that lives on hope has but a slender diet.He that plants trees loves others besides himself.He that will steal a pin will steal a better thing.He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.He's in clover.His bread is buttered on both sides.His room is better than his company.Hunger is the best sauce.I have other fish to fry.
It was an old, old, old, old lady,And a boy that was half past three;And the way that they played togetherWas beautiful to see.
She couldn't go running and jumping,And the boy, no more could he;For he was a thin little fellow,With a thin little twisted knee.
They sat in the yellow sunlight,Out under the maple-tree;And the game that they played I'll tell you,Just as it was told to me.
It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing,Though you'd never have known it to be—With an old, old, old, old lady,And a boy with a twisted knee.
The boy would bend his face downOn his one little sound right knee,And he'd guess where she was hiding,In guesses One, Two, Three!
"You are in the china-closet!"He would cry, and laugh with glee—It wasn't the china-closet;But he still had Two and Three.
"You are up in Papa's big bedroom,In the chest with the queer old key!"And she said: "You arewarmandwarmer;But you're not quite right," said she.
"It can't be the little cupboardWhere Mamma's things used to be—So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!"And he found her with his Three.
Then she covered her face with her fingers,That were wrinkled and white and wee,And she guessed where the boy was hiding,With a One and a Two and a Three.
And they never had stirred from their places,Right under the maple-tree—This old, old, old, old lady,And the boy with the lame little knee—This dear, dear, dear old lady,And the boy who was half past three.
What does little birdie say,In her nest at peep of day?"Let me fly," says little birdie;"Mother, let me fly away.""Birdie, rest a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger."So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away.What does little baby sayIn her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,"Let me rise and fly away.""Baby, sleep a little longer,Till the little limbs are stronger."If she sleeps a little longer,Baby, too, shall fly away.
Tell no tales out of school.The bird that can sing, and won't sing, must be made to sing.You have put the cart before the horse.It is the early bird that catches the worm.There is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.The more haste, the less speed.They who make the best use of their time have none to spare.Those who play with edge tools must expect to be cut.Three removes are as bad as a fire.Through thick and thin.Time and tide wait for no man.To beat about the bush.To break the ice.To buy a pig in a poke.To find a mare's nest.
Whenever the Moon and stars are set,Whenever the wind is high,All night long in the dark and wet,A man goes riding by.Late in the night when the fires are outWhy does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,And ships are tossed at sea,By, on the highway, low and loud,By, at the gallop goes he.By, at the gallop he goes, and thenBy, he comes back at the gallop again.
There was an Old Man with a nose,Who said, "If you choose to supposeThat my nose is too long, you are certainly wrong!"That remarkable Man with a nose.
There was an Old Man on a hill,Who seldom, if ever, stood still;He ran up and down in his Grandmother's gown,Which adorned that Old Man on a hill.
There was an Old Person of Dover,Who rushed through a field of blue clover;But some very large Bees stung his nose and his knees,So he very soon went back to Dover.
There was an Old Man who said, "Hush!I perceive a young bird in this bush!"When they said, "Is it small?" he replied, "Not at all;It is four times as big as the bush!"
There was an Old Man of the West,Who never could get any rest;So they set him to spin on his nose and his chin,Which cured that Old Man of the West.
There was an Old Man who said, "Well!Will nobody answer this bell?I have pulled day and night, till my hair has grown white,But nobody answers this bell!"
There was an Old Man with a beard,Who said, "It is just as I feared!—Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren,Have all built their nests in my beard."
There was an Old Person of DeanWho dined on one pea and one bean;For he said, "More than that would make me too fat,"That cautious Old Person of Dean.
There was an Old Man of El Hums,Who lived upon nothing but crumbs,Which he picked off the ground, with the other birds round,In the roads and the lanes of El Hums.
If wishes were horses beggars would ride.Ill news travels fast.It never rains but it pours.It is a long lane that has no turning.It is an ill wind that blows no man good.It is easier to pull down than to build.It is never too late to mend.Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee.Leave well enough alone.Let every tub stand on its own bottom.Let them laugh that win.Like father, like son.Little and often fills the purse.Look ere you leap.
Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,With purple blossoms to the spring;And I a bird to shelter there.When wearied on my little wing!
How I would mourn, when it was torn,By autumn wild, and winter rude!But I would sing, on wanton wing,When youthful May its bloom renewed.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon;Best, rest on mother's breast,Father will come to thee soon;Father will come to his babe in the nest,Silver sails all out of the westUnder the silver moon:Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
How doth the little busy beeImprove each shining hour,And gather honey all the dayFrom every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell,How neat she spreads the wax!And labors hard to store it wellWith the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,I would be busy too;For Satan finds some mischief stillFor idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,Let my first years be past,That I may give for every daySome good account at last.
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.
Oh, well for the fisherman's boy,That he shouts with his sister at play!Oh, well for the sailor lad,That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go onTo their haven under the hill;But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.
I shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For who has sight so keen and strong,That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oakI found the arrow, still unbroke;And the song, from beginning to end,I found again in the heart of a friend.
Love me little, love me long,Is the burden of my song.Many a true word is spoken in jest.Many hands make light work.Money is a good servant, but a bad master.My mind to me a kingdom is.Never be weary of well doing.No cross, no crown.No man can serve two masters.No news is good news.No smoke without some fire.Not worth a pin.Of two ills choose the least.One cannot be in two places at once.One good turn demands another.
Said the Table to the Chair,"You can hardly be awareHow I suffer from the heatAnd from chilblains on my feet.If we took a little walk,We might have a little talk;Pray let us take the air,"Said the Table to the Chair.
Said the Chair unto the Table,"Now, you know we are not able:How foolishly you talk,When you know we cannot walk!"Said the Table with a sigh,"It can do no harm to try.I've as many legs as you:Why can't we walk on two?"
So they both went slowly down,And walked about the townWith a cheerful bumpy soundAs they toddled round and round;And everybody cried,As they hastened to their side,"See! the Table and the ChairHave come out to take the air!"But in going down an alley,To a castle in a valley,They completely lost their way,And wandered all the day;Till, to see them safely back,They paid a Ducky-quack,And a Beetle, and a Mouse,Who took them to their house.
Then they whispered to each other."O delightful little brother,What a lovely walk we've taken!Let us dine on beans and bacon."So the Ducky and the leetleBrowny-Mousy and the BeetleDined, and danced upon their headsTill they toddled to their beds.
When cats run home and the light is comeAnd dew is cold upon the ground,And the far-off stream is dumb,And the whirring sail goes round,And the whirring sail goes round;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,And rarely smells the new-mown hay,And the cock hath sung beneath the thatchTwice or thrice his roundelay,Twice or thrice his roundelay;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to seaIn a beautiful pea-green boat:They took some honey and plenty of moneyWrapped up In a five-pound note.The Owl looked up to the stars above,And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,What a beautiful Pussy you are,You are,You are!What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,How charmingly sweet you sing!Oh, let us be married; too long we have tarried:But what shall we do for a ring?"They sailed away, for a year and a day,To the land where the bong-tree grows;And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,With a ring at the end of his nose,His nose,His nose,With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shillingYour ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next dayBy the Turkey who lives on the hill.They dined on mince and slices of quince,Which they ate with a runcible spoon;And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,They danced by the light of the moon,The moon,The moon,They danced by the light of the moon.
One man's meat is another man's poison.Out of debt out of danger.Out of the frying-pan into the fire.Penny wise and pound foolish.Riches have wings.Robin Hood's choice: this or nothing.Rome was not built in a day.Save at the spiggot, and lose at the bung.Second thoughts are best.Set a thief to take a thief.A short horse is soon curried.Take the will for the deed.Take away my good name, take away my life.Take time by the forelock.
The mountain and the squirrelHad a quarrel,And the former called the latter "Little Prig;"Bun replied,"You are doubtless very big;But all sorts of things and weatherMust be taken in together,To make up a yearAnd a sphere.And I think it no disgraceTo occupy my place.If I'm not so large as you,You are not so small as I,And not half so spry.I'll not deny you makeA very pretty squirrel track;Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;If I cannot carry forests on my back,Neither can you crack a nut."
The Cock is crowing,The stream is flowing,The small birds twitter,The lake doth glitter,The green field sleeps in the sun;The oldest and youngestAre at work with the strongest;The cattle are grazing.Their heads never raising;There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeatedThe snow hath retreated,And now doth fare illOn the top of the bare hill;The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anonThere's joy in the mountains;There's life in the fountains;Small clouds are sailing,Blue sky prevailing;The rain is over and gone!
Those evening bells! those evening bells!How many a tale their music tells,Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are passed away;And many a heart, that then was gay,Within the tomb now darkly dwells,And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 't will be when I am gone;That tuneful peal will still ring on,While other bards shall walk these dells,And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.
I've watched you now a full half hourSelf-poised upon that yellow flower;And, little Butterfly! indeedI know not if you sleep or feed.How motionless!—not frozen seasMore motionless!—and thenWhat joy awaits you, when the breezeHath found you out among the trees,And calls you forth again!This plot of orchard-ground is ours;My trees they are, my Sister's flowers:Here rest your wings when they are weary,Here lodge as in a sanctuary!Come often to us, fear no wrong;Sit near us on the bough!We'll talk of sunshine and of song,And summer days, when we were young;Sweet childish days, that were as longAs twenty days are now.
To follow one's nose.To have a finger in the pie.To hit the nail on the head.To kill two birds with one stone.To make a spoon, or spoil a horn.To pour oil into the fire is not the way to quench it.Two heads are better than one.Waste not, want not.We easily forget our faults when nobody knows them.We never know the worth of water till the well is dry.When Adam delved and Eve span, who was then the gentleman?When the cat is away, the mice will play.Strike when the iron is hot.Where there's a will, there's a way.You cannot eat your cake and have it too.You must take the fat with the lean.
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf-hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and oh!The difference to me.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see, at break of day,The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill nevermore be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:'T is scarcely afternoon,—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!"
At this the father raised his hook,And snapped a fagot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe;With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time,She wandered up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb,But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on the hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.
They wept—and, turning homeward, cried,"In heaven we all shall meet;"—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,And by the long stone-wall.
And then an open field they crossed,The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost,And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank:And further there were none!
—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child,That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,There's a thrush that sings loud,—it has sung for three years;Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven; but they fade,—The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colors all have all passed away from her eyes.