SLEEP, little pigeon, and fold your wings—Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—Swinging the nest where her little one lies.Away out yonder I see a star—Silvery star with a tinkling song;To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—Calling and tinkling the night along.In through the window a moonbeam comes—Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping—Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”Up from the sea there floats the sobOf the waves that are breaking upon the shore,As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings—Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
SLEEP, little pigeon, and fold your wings—Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—Swinging the nest where her little one lies.Away out yonder I see a star—Silvery star with a tinkling song;To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—Calling and tinkling the night along.In through the window a moonbeam comes—Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping—Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”Up from the sea there floats the sobOf the waves that are breaking upon the shore,As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings—Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
SLEEP, little pigeon, and fold your wings—Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star—Silvery star with a tinkling song;To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes—Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;All silently creeping, it asks: “Is he sleeping—Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”
Up from the sea there floats the sobOf the waves that are breaking upon the shore,As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings—Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
SOME time there ben a lyttel boyThat wolde not renne and play,And helpless like that little tykeBen allwais in the way.“Goe, make you merrie with the rest,”His weary moder cried;But with a frown he catcht her gownAnd hong untill her side.That boy did love his moder well,Which spake him faire, I ween;He loved to stand and hold her handAnd ken her with his een;His cosset bleated in the croft,His toys unheeded lay,—He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe,Ben allwais in the way.Godde loveth children and doth girdHis throne with soche as these,And he doth smile in plaisaunce whileThey cluster at his knees;And some time, when he looked on earthAnd watched the bairns at play,He kenned with joy a lyttel boyBen allwais in the way.And then a moder felt her heartHow that it ben to-torne,She kissed eche day till she ben grayThe shoon he use to worn;No bairn let hold untill her gownNor played upon the floore,—Godde’s was the joy; a lyttel boyBen in the way no more!
SOME time there ben a lyttel boyThat wolde not renne and play,And helpless like that little tykeBen allwais in the way.“Goe, make you merrie with the rest,”His weary moder cried;But with a frown he catcht her gownAnd hong untill her side.That boy did love his moder well,Which spake him faire, I ween;He loved to stand and hold her handAnd ken her with his een;His cosset bleated in the croft,His toys unheeded lay,—He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe,Ben allwais in the way.Godde loveth children and doth girdHis throne with soche as these,And he doth smile in plaisaunce whileThey cluster at his knees;And some time, when he looked on earthAnd watched the bairns at play,He kenned with joy a lyttel boyBen allwais in the way.And then a moder felt her heartHow that it ben to-torne,She kissed eche day till she ben grayThe shoon he use to worn;No bairn let hold untill her gownNor played upon the floore,—Godde’s was the joy; a lyttel boyBen in the way no more!
SOME time there ben a lyttel boyThat wolde not renne and play,And helpless like that little tykeBen allwais in the way.“Goe, make you merrie with the rest,”His weary moder cried;But with a frown he catcht her gownAnd hong untill her side.
That boy did love his moder well,Which spake him faire, I ween;He loved to stand and hold her handAnd ken her with his een;His cosset bleated in the croft,His toys unheeded lay,—He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe,Ben allwais in the way.
Godde loveth children and doth girdHis throne with soche as these,And he doth smile in plaisaunce whileThey cluster at his knees;And some time, when he looked on earthAnd watched the bairns at play,He kenned with joy a lyttel boyBen allwais in the way.
And then a moder felt her heartHow that it ben to-torne,She kissed eche day till she ben grayThe shoon he use to worn;No bairn let hold untill her gownNor played upon the floore,—Godde’s was the joy; a lyttel boyBen in the way no more!
EVERY evening, after tea,Teeny-Weeny comes to me,And, astride my willing knee,Plies his lash and rides away;Though that palfrey, all too spare,Finds his burden hard to bear,Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care;He commands, and I obey!First it’s trot, and gallop then;Now it’s back to trot again;Teeny-Weeny likes it whenHe is riding fierce and fast.Then his dark eyes brighter growAnd his cheeks are all aglow:“More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!”Till the horse breaks down at last.Oh, the strange and lovely sightsTeeny-Weeny sees of nights,As he makes those famous flightsOn that wondrous horse of his!Oftentimes before he knows,Wearylike his eyelids close,And, still smiling, off he goesWhere the land of By-low is.There he sees the folk of fayHard at ring-a-rosie play,And he hears those fairies say:“Come, let’s chase him to and fro!”But, with a defiant shout,Teeny puts that host to rout;Of this tale I make no doubt,Every night he tells it so.So I feel a tender prideIn my boy who dares to rideThat fierce horse of his astride,Off into those misty lands;And as on my breast he lies,Dreaming in that wondrous wise,I caress his folded eyes,Pat his little dimpled hands.On a time he went away,Just a little while to stay,And I’m not ashamed to sayI was very lonely then;Life without him was so sad,You can fancy I was gladAnd made merry when I hadTeeny-Weeny back again!So of evenings, after tea,When he toddles up to meAnd goes tugging at my knee.You should hear his palfrey neigh!You should see him prance and shy,When, with an exulting cry,Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high,Plies his lash and rides away!
EVERY evening, after tea,Teeny-Weeny comes to me,And, astride my willing knee,Plies his lash and rides away;Though that palfrey, all too spare,Finds his burden hard to bear,Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care;He commands, and I obey!First it’s trot, and gallop then;Now it’s back to trot again;Teeny-Weeny likes it whenHe is riding fierce and fast.Then his dark eyes brighter growAnd his cheeks are all aglow:“More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!”Till the horse breaks down at last.Oh, the strange and lovely sightsTeeny-Weeny sees of nights,As he makes those famous flightsOn that wondrous horse of his!Oftentimes before he knows,Wearylike his eyelids close,And, still smiling, off he goesWhere the land of By-low is.There he sees the folk of fayHard at ring-a-rosie play,And he hears those fairies say:“Come, let’s chase him to and fro!”But, with a defiant shout,Teeny puts that host to rout;Of this tale I make no doubt,Every night he tells it so.So I feel a tender prideIn my boy who dares to rideThat fierce horse of his astride,Off into those misty lands;And as on my breast he lies,Dreaming in that wondrous wise,I caress his folded eyes,Pat his little dimpled hands.On a time he went away,Just a little while to stay,And I’m not ashamed to sayI was very lonely then;Life without him was so sad,You can fancy I was gladAnd made merry when I hadTeeny-Weeny back again!So of evenings, after tea,When he toddles up to meAnd goes tugging at my knee.You should hear his palfrey neigh!You should see him prance and shy,When, with an exulting cry,Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high,Plies his lash and rides away!
EVERY evening, after tea,Teeny-Weeny comes to me,And, astride my willing knee,Plies his lash and rides away;Though that palfrey, all too spare,Finds his burden hard to bear,Teeny-Weeny doesn’t care;He commands, and I obey!
First it’s trot, and gallop then;Now it’s back to trot again;Teeny-Weeny likes it whenHe is riding fierce and fast.Then his dark eyes brighter growAnd his cheeks are all aglow:“More!” he cries, and never “Whoa!”Till the horse breaks down at last.
Oh, the strange and lovely sightsTeeny-Weeny sees of nights,As he makes those famous flightsOn that wondrous horse of his!Oftentimes before he knows,Wearylike his eyelids close,And, still smiling, off he goesWhere the land of By-low is.
There he sees the folk of fayHard at ring-a-rosie play,And he hears those fairies say:“Come, let’s chase him to and fro!”But, with a defiant shout,Teeny puts that host to rout;Of this tale I make no doubt,Every night he tells it so.
So I feel a tender prideIn my boy who dares to rideThat fierce horse of his astride,Off into those misty lands;And as on my breast he lies,Dreaming in that wondrous wise,I caress his folded eyes,Pat his little dimpled hands.
On a time he went away,Just a little while to stay,And I’m not ashamed to sayI was very lonely then;Life without him was so sad,You can fancy I was gladAnd made merry when I hadTeeny-Weeny back again!
So of evenings, after tea,When he toddles up to meAnd goes tugging at my knee.You should hear his palfrey neigh!You should see him prance and shy,When, with an exulting cry,Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high,Plies his lash and rides away!
HIS listening soul hears no echo of battle,No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame;But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle,And softly he murmurs her idolized name.And it seems as if now at his heart she were clingingAs she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee;He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing—And Nellie is coming from over the sea.While each patriot’s hope stays the fullness of sorrow,While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low,He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrowLike an angel come back from the dear long ago.Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion,And what for our love or our grief careth he?A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean,And Nellie is coming from over the sea!O daughter—my daughter! when Death stands before meAnd beckons me off to that far misty shore,Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me,And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore.In the grace of your love all my anguish abating,I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he,And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waitingWhen Nellie was coming from over the sea.
HIS listening soul hears no echo of battle,No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame;But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle,And softly he murmurs her idolized name.And it seems as if now at his heart she were clingingAs she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee;He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing—And Nellie is coming from over the sea.While each patriot’s hope stays the fullness of sorrow,While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low,He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrowLike an angel come back from the dear long ago.Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion,And what for our love or our grief careth he?A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean,And Nellie is coming from over the sea!O daughter—my daughter! when Death stands before meAnd beckons me off to that far misty shore,Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me,And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore.In the grace of your love all my anguish abating,I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he,And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waitingWhen Nellie was coming from over the sea.
HIS listening soul hears no echo of battle,No pæan of triumph nor welcome of fame;But down through the years comes a little one’s prattle,And softly he murmurs her idolized name.And it seems as if now at his heart she were clingingAs she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee;He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing—And Nellie is coming from over the sea.
While each patriot’s hope stays the fullness of sorrow,While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low,He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrowLike an angel come back from the dear long ago.Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion,And what for our love or our grief careth he?A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean,And Nellie is coming from over the sea!
O daughter—my daughter! when Death stands before meAnd beckons me off to that far misty shore,Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me,And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore.In the grace of your love all my anguish abating,I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he,And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waitingWhen Nellie was coming from over the sea.
THE sky is dark and the hills are whiteAs the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;And this is the song the storm-king sings,As over the world his cloak he flings:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”;He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:“Sleep, little one, sleep.”On yonder mountain-side a vineClings at the foot of a mother pine;The tree bends over the trembling thing,And only the vine can hear her sing:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—What shall you fear when I am here?Sleep, little one, sleep.”The king may sing in his bitter flight,The tree may croon to the vine to-night,But the little snowflake at my breastLiketh the songIsing the best—Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;Weary thou art, a-next my heartSleep, little one, sleep.
THE sky is dark and the hills are whiteAs the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;And this is the song the storm-king sings,As over the world his cloak he flings:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”;He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:“Sleep, little one, sleep.”On yonder mountain-side a vineClings at the foot of a mother pine;The tree bends over the trembling thing,And only the vine can hear her sing:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—What shall you fear when I am here?Sleep, little one, sleep.”The king may sing in his bitter flight,The tree may croon to the vine to-night,But the little snowflake at my breastLiketh the songIsing the best—Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;Weary thou art, a-next my heartSleep, little one, sleep.
THE sky is dark and the hills are whiteAs the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;And this is the song the storm-king sings,As over the world his cloak he flings:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”;He rustles his wings and gruffly sings:“Sleep, little one, sleep.”
On yonder mountain-side a vineClings at the foot of a mother pine;The tree bends over the trembling thing,And only the vine can hear her sing:“Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep—What shall you fear when I am here?Sleep, little one, sleep.”
The king may sing in his bitter flight,The tree may croon to the vine to-night,But the little snowflake at my breastLiketh the songIsing the best—Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;Weary thou art, a-next my heartSleep, little one, sleep.
IPRAY that, risen from the dead,I may in glory stand—A crown, perhaps, upon my head,But a needle in my hand.I’ve never learned to sing or play,So let no harp be mine;From birth unto my dying day,Plain sewing’s been my line.Therefore, accustomed to the endTo plying useful stitches,I’ll be content if asked to mendThe little angels’ breeches.
IPRAY that, risen from the dead,I may in glory stand—A crown, perhaps, upon my head,But a needle in my hand.I’ve never learned to sing or play,So let no harp be mine;From birth unto my dying day,Plain sewing’s been my line.Therefore, accustomed to the endTo plying useful stitches,I’ll be content if asked to mendThe little angels’ breeches.
IPRAY that, risen from the dead,I may in glory stand—A crown, perhaps, upon my head,But a needle in my hand.
I’ve never learned to sing or play,So let no harp be mine;From birth unto my dying day,Plain sewing’s been my line.
Therefore, accustomed to the endTo plying useful stitches,I’ll be content if asked to mendThe little angels’ breeches.
LAST night, my darling, as you slept,I thought I heard you sigh,And to your little crib I crept,And watched a space thereby;Then, bending down, I kissed your brow—For, oh! I love you so—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.Some time, when, in a darkened placeWhere others come to weep,Your eyes shall see a weary faceCalm in eternal sleep;The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow,The patient smile may show—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.Look backward, then, into the years,And see me here to-night—See, O my darling! how my tearsAre falling as I write;And feel once more upon your browThe kiss of long ago—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.
LAST night, my darling, as you slept,I thought I heard you sigh,And to your little crib I crept,And watched a space thereby;Then, bending down, I kissed your brow—For, oh! I love you so—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.Some time, when, in a darkened placeWhere others come to weep,Your eyes shall see a weary faceCalm in eternal sleep;The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow,The patient smile may show—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.Look backward, then, into the years,And see me here to-night—See, O my darling! how my tearsAre falling as I write;And feel once more upon your browThe kiss of long ago—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.
LAST night, my darling, as you slept,I thought I heard you sigh,And to your little crib I crept,And watched a space thereby;Then, bending down, I kissed your brow—For, oh! I love you so—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.
Some time, when, in a darkened placeWhere others come to weep,Your eyes shall see a weary faceCalm in eternal sleep;The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow,The patient smile may show—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.
Look backward, then, into the years,And see me here to-night—See, O my darling! how my tearsAre falling as I write;And feel once more upon your browThe kiss of long ago—You are too young to know it now,But some time you shall know.
AS I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day,I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way;I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to meThat elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be!The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs—High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings,But not so high as when a little boy I did my bestTo scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prizeThat dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise,And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb,He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him!Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm—But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm!The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the restRan every risk to carry off the old fire-hang-bird’s nest!I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through,That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue,And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when sheDiscovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree;How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs,She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs,And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attestThat they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest!Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there,While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair,The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go,As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below!And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chideThe callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside:“Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest—I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!”For many, very many years that mother-bird has comeTo rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home.She is the selfsame bird of old—I’m certain it is she—Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me.Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name(And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same);Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breastTo climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest!I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree,And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as itusedto be,I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow,For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago!The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and IBeheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high;He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out WestHis little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest!Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be—I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me!They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to knowWhen brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago.So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men,They could recall with proper pride their country life again;And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the bestWould be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
AS I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day,I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way;I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to meThat elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be!The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs—High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings,But not so high as when a little boy I did my bestTo scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prizeThat dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise,And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb,He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him!Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm—But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm!The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the restRan every risk to carry off the old fire-hang-bird’s nest!I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through,That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue,And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when sheDiscovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree;How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs,She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs,And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attestThat they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest!Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there,While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair,The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go,As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below!And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chideThe callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside:“Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest—I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!”For many, very many years that mother-bird has comeTo rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home.She is the selfsame bird of old—I’m certain it is she—Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me.Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name(And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same);Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breastTo climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest!I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree,And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as itusedto be,I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow,For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago!The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and IBeheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high;He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out WestHis little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest!Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be—I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me!They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to knowWhen brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago.So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men,They could recall with proper pride their country life again;And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the bestWould be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
AS I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day,I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way;I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to meThat elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be!The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs—High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings,But not so high as when a little boy I did my bestTo scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prizeThat dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise,And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb,He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him!Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm—But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm!The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the restRan every risk to carry off the old fire-hang-bird’s nest!
I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through,That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue,And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when sheDiscovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree;How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs,She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs,And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attestThat they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest!
Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there,While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair,The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go,As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below!And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chideThe callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside:“Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest—I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!”
For many, very many years that mother-bird has comeTo rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home.She is the selfsame bird of old—I’m certain it is she—Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me.Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name(And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same);Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breastTo climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree,And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as itusedto be,I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow,For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago!The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and IBeheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high;He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out WestHis little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest!
Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be—I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me!They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to knowWhen brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago.So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men,They could recall with proper pride their country life again;And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the bestWould be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest!
BUTTERCUP, Poppy, Forget-me-not—These three bloomed in a garden spot;And once, all merry with song and play,A little one heard three voices say:“Shine and shadow, summer and spring,O thou child with the tangled hairAnd laughing eyes! we three shall bringEach an offering passing fair.”The little one did not understand,But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.Buttercup gamboled all day long,Sharing the little one’s mirth and song;Then, stealing along on misty gleams,Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams.Playing and dreaming—and that was allTill once a sleeper would not awake;Kissing the little face under the pall,We thought of the words the third flower spake;And we found betimes in a hallowed spotThe solace and peace of Forget-me-not.Buttercup shareth the joy of day,Glinting with gold the hours of play;Bringeth the poppy sweet repose,When the hands would fold and the eyes would close;And after it all—the play and the sleepOf a little life—what cometh then?To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weepA new flower bringeth God’s peace again.Each one serveth its tender lot—Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.
BUTTERCUP, Poppy, Forget-me-not—These three bloomed in a garden spot;And once, all merry with song and play,A little one heard three voices say:“Shine and shadow, summer and spring,O thou child with the tangled hairAnd laughing eyes! we three shall bringEach an offering passing fair.”The little one did not understand,But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.Buttercup gamboled all day long,Sharing the little one’s mirth and song;Then, stealing along on misty gleams,Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams.Playing and dreaming—and that was allTill once a sleeper would not awake;Kissing the little face under the pall,We thought of the words the third flower spake;And we found betimes in a hallowed spotThe solace and peace of Forget-me-not.Buttercup shareth the joy of day,Glinting with gold the hours of play;Bringeth the poppy sweet repose,When the hands would fold and the eyes would close;And after it all—the play and the sleepOf a little life—what cometh then?To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weepA new flower bringeth God’s peace again.Each one serveth its tender lot—Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.
BUTTERCUP, Poppy, Forget-me-not—These three bloomed in a garden spot;And once, all merry with song and play,A little one heard three voices say:“Shine and shadow, summer and spring,O thou child with the tangled hairAnd laughing eyes! we three shall bringEach an offering passing fair.”The little one did not understand,But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.
Buttercup gamboled all day long,Sharing the little one’s mirth and song;Then, stealing along on misty gleams,Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams.Playing and dreaming—and that was allTill once a sleeper would not awake;Kissing the little face under the pall,We thought of the words the third flower spake;And we found betimes in a hallowed spotThe solace and peace of Forget-me-not.
Buttercup shareth the joy of day,Glinting with gold the hours of play;Bringeth the poppy sweet repose,When the hands would fold and the eyes would close;And after it all—the play and the sleepOf a little life—what cometh then?To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weepA new flower bringeth God’s peace again.Each one serveth its tender lot—Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.
WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe—Sailed on a river of crystal light,Into a sea of dew.“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”The old moon asked the three.“We have come to fish for the herring fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we!”Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.The old moon laughed and sang a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea—“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—Never afeard are we”;So cried the stars to the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam—Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home;’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea—But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one’s trundle-bed.So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock in the misty sea,Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe—Sailed on a river of crystal light,Into a sea of dew.“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”The old moon asked the three.“We have come to fish for the herring fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we!”Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.The old moon laughed and sang a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea—“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—Never afeard are we”;So cried the stars to the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam—Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home;’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea—But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one’s trundle-bed.So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock in the misty sea,Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe—Sailed on a river of crystal light,Into a sea of dew.“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”The old moon asked the three.“We have come to fish for the herring fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we!”Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea—“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—Never afeard are we”;So cried the stars to the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam—Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home;’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea—But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one’s trundle-bed.So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock in the misty sea,Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.
OUT on the mountain over the town,All night long, all night long,The trolls go up and the trolls go down,Bearing their packs and singing a song;And this is the song the hill-folk croon,As they trudge in the light of the misty moon—This is ever their dolorous tune:“Gold, gold! ever more gold—Bright red gold for dearie!”Deep in the hill a father delvesAll night long, all night long;None but the peering, furtive elvesSees his toil and hears his song;Merrily ever the cavern ringsAs merrily ever his pick he swings,And merrily ever this song he sings:“Gold, gold! ever more gold—Bright red gold for dearie!”Mother is rocking thy lowly bedAll night long, all night long,Happy to smooth thy curly head,To hold thy hand and to sing her song:’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,And the burthen it beareth is not of gold,But it’s “Love, love! nothing but loveMother’s love for dearie!”
OUT on the mountain over the town,All night long, all night long,The trolls go up and the trolls go down,Bearing their packs and singing a song;And this is the song the hill-folk croon,As they trudge in the light of the misty moon—This is ever their dolorous tune:“Gold, gold! ever more gold—Bright red gold for dearie!”Deep in the hill a father delvesAll night long, all night long;None but the peering, furtive elvesSees his toil and hears his song;Merrily ever the cavern ringsAs merrily ever his pick he swings,And merrily ever this song he sings:“Gold, gold! ever more gold—Bright red gold for dearie!”Mother is rocking thy lowly bedAll night long, all night long,Happy to smooth thy curly head,To hold thy hand and to sing her song:’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,And the burthen it beareth is not of gold,But it’s “Love, love! nothing but loveMother’s love for dearie!”
OUT on the mountain over the town,All night long, all night long,The trolls go up and the trolls go down,Bearing their packs and singing a song;And this is the song the hill-folk croon,As they trudge in the light of the misty moon—This is ever their dolorous tune:“Gold, gold! ever more gold—Bright red gold for dearie!”
Deep in the hill a father delvesAll night long, all night long;None but the peering, furtive elvesSees his toil and hears his song;Merrily ever the cavern ringsAs merrily ever his pick he swings,And merrily ever this song he sings:“Gold, gold! ever more gold—Bright red gold for dearie!”
Mother is rocking thy lowly bedAll night long, all night long,Happy to smooth thy curly head,To hold thy hand and to sing her song:’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old,Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold,And the burthen it beareth is not of gold,But it’s “Love, love! nothing but loveMother’s love for dearie!”
DEAREST, how hard it is to sayThat all is for the best,Since, sometimes, in a grievous wayGod’s will is manifest.See with what hearty, noisy gleeOur little ones to-nightDance round and round our Christmas treeWith pretty toys bedight.Dearest, one voice they may not hear,One face they may not see—Ah, what of all this Christmas cheerCometh to you and me?Cometh before our misty eyesThat other little face,And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,That love in the old embrace.Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,Bringing his peace to men,And he bringeth to you and to me the lightOf the old, old years again.Bringeth the peace of long ago,When a wee one clasped your kneeAnd lisped of the morrow—dear one, you know—And here come back is he!Dearest, ’tis sometimes hard to sayThat all is for the best,For, often, in a grievous wayGod’s will is manifest.But in the grace of this holy nightThat bringeth us back our child,Let us see that the ways of God are right,And so be reconciled.
DEAREST, how hard it is to sayThat all is for the best,Since, sometimes, in a grievous wayGod’s will is manifest.See with what hearty, noisy gleeOur little ones to-nightDance round and round our Christmas treeWith pretty toys bedight.Dearest, one voice they may not hear,One face they may not see—Ah, what of all this Christmas cheerCometh to you and me?Cometh before our misty eyesThat other little face,And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,That love in the old embrace.Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,Bringing his peace to men,And he bringeth to you and to me the lightOf the old, old years again.Bringeth the peace of long ago,When a wee one clasped your kneeAnd lisped of the morrow—dear one, you know—And here come back is he!Dearest, ’tis sometimes hard to sayThat all is for the best,For, often, in a grievous wayGod’s will is manifest.But in the grace of this holy nightThat bringeth us back our child,Let us see that the ways of God are right,And so be reconciled.
DEAREST, how hard it is to sayThat all is for the best,Since, sometimes, in a grievous wayGod’s will is manifest.
See with what hearty, noisy gleeOur little ones to-nightDance round and round our Christmas treeWith pretty toys bedight.
Dearest, one voice they may not hear,One face they may not see—Ah, what of all this Christmas cheerCometh to you and me?
Cometh before our misty eyesThat other little face,And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise,That love in the old embrace.
Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night,Bringing his peace to men,And he bringeth to you and to me the lightOf the old, old years again.
Bringeth the peace of long ago,When a wee one clasped your kneeAnd lisped of the morrow—dear one, you know—And here come back is he!
Dearest, ’tis sometimes hard to sayThat all is for the best,For, often, in a grievous wayGod’s will is manifest.
But in the grace of this holy nightThat bringeth us back our child,Let us see that the ways of God are right,And so be reconciled.
YOU’re not so big as you were then,O little brook!—I mean those hazy summers whenWe boys roamed, full of awe, besideYour noisy, foaming, tumbling tide,And wondered if it could be trueThat there were bigger brooks than youO mighty brook, O peerless brook!All up and down this reedy placeWhere lives the brook,We angled for the furtive dace;The redwing-blackbird did his bestTo make us think he’d built his nestHard by the stream, when, like as not,He’d hung it in a secret spotFar from the brook, the telltale brook!And often, when the noontime heatParboiled the brook,We’d draw our boots and swing our feetUpon the waves that, in their play,Would tag us last and scoot away;And mother never seemed to knowWhat burnt our legs and chapped them so—But father guessed it was the brook!And Fido—how he loved to swimThe cooling brook,Whenever we’d throw sticks for him;And how we boysdidwish that weCould only swim as good as he—Why, Daniel Webster never wasRecipient of such great applauseAs Fido, battling with the brook!But once—O most unhappy dayFor you, my brook!—Came Cousin Sam along that way;And, having lived a spell out West,Where creeks aren’t counted much at best,He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,But, with superb indifference,steptAcross that brook—our mighty brook!Why do you scamper on your way,You little brook,When I come back to you to-day?Is it because you flee the grassThat lunges at you as you pass,As if, in playful mood, it wouldTickle the truant if it could,You chuckling brook—you saucy brook?Or is it you no longer know—You fickle brook—The honest friend of long ago?The years that kept us twain apartHave changed my face, but not my heart—Many and sore those years, and yetI fancied you could not forgetThat happy time, my playmate brook!Oh, sing again in artless glee,My little brook,The song you used to sing for me—The song that’s lingered in my earsSo soothingly these many years;My grief shall be forgotten whenI hear your tranquil voice againAnd that sweet song, dear little brook!
YOU’re not so big as you were then,O little brook!—I mean those hazy summers whenWe boys roamed, full of awe, besideYour noisy, foaming, tumbling tide,And wondered if it could be trueThat there were bigger brooks than youO mighty brook, O peerless brook!All up and down this reedy placeWhere lives the brook,We angled for the furtive dace;The redwing-blackbird did his bestTo make us think he’d built his nestHard by the stream, when, like as not,He’d hung it in a secret spotFar from the brook, the telltale brook!And often, when the noontime heatParboiled the brook,We’d draw our boots and swing our feetUpon the waves that, in their play,Would tag us last and scoot away;And mother never seemed to knowWhat burnt our legs and chapped them so—But father guessed it was the brook!And Fido—how he loved to swimThe cooling brook,Whenever we’d throw sticks for him;And how we boysdidwish that weCould only swim as good as he—Why, Daniel Webster never wasRecipient of such great applauseAs Fido, battling with the brook!But once—O most unhappy dayFor you, my brook!—Came Cousin Sam along that way;And, having lived a spell out West,Where creeks aren’t counted much at best,He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,But, with superb indifference,steptAcross that brook—our mighty brook!Why do you scamper on your way,You little brook,When I come back to you to-day?Is it because you flee the grassThat lunges at you as you pass,As if, in playful mood, it wouldTickle the truant if it could,You chuckling brook—you saucy brook?Or is it you no longer know—You fickle brook—The honest friend of long ago?The years that kept us twain apartHave changed my face, but not my heart—Many and sore those years, and yetI fancied you could not forgetThat happy time, my playmate brook!Oh, sing again in artless glee,My little brook,The song you used to sing for me—The song that’s lingered in my earsSo soothingly these many years;My grief shall be forgotten whenI hear your tranquil voice againAnd that sweet song, dear little brook!
YOU’re not so big as you were then,O little brook!—I mean those hazy summers whenWe boys roamed, full of awe, besideYour noisy, foaming, tumbling tide,And wondered if it could be trueThat there were bigger brooks than youO mighty brook, O peerless brook!
All up and down this reedy placeWhere lives the brook,We angled for the furtive dace;The redwing-blackbird did his bestTo make us think he’d built his nestHard by the stream, when, like as not,He’d hung it in a secret spotFar from the brook, the telltale brook!
And often, when the noontime heatParboiled the brook,We’d draw our boots and swing our feetUpon the waves that, in their play,Would tag us last and scoot away;And mother never seemed to knowWhat burnt our legs and chapped them so—But father guessed it was the brook!
And Fido—how he loved to swimThe cooling brook,Whenever we’d throw sticks for him;And how we boysdidwish that weCould only swim as good as he—Why, Daniel Webster never wasRecipient of such great applauseAs Fido, battling with the brook!
But once—O most unhappy dayFor you, my brook!—Came Cousin Sam along that way;And, having lived a spell out West,Where creeks aren’t counted much at best,He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,But, with superb indifference,steptAcross that brook—our mighty brook!
Why do you scamper on your way,You little brook,When I come back to you to-day?Is it because you flee the grassThat lunges at you as you pass,As if, in playful mood, it wouldTickle the truant if it could,You chuckling brook—you saucy brook?
Or is it you no longer know—You fickle brook—The honest friend of long ago?The years that kept us twain apartHave changed my face, but not my heart—Many and sore those years, and yetI fancied you could not forgetThat happy time, my playmate brook!
Oh, sing again in artless glee,My little brook,The song you used to sing for me—The song that’s lingered in my earsSo soothingly these many years;My grief shall be forgotten whenI hear your tranquil voice againAnd that sweet song, dear little brook!
HO, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin’ doo?Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin’ on the lea?Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me—Got a lump o’ sugar an’ a posie for you,Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!Why! here you are, my little croodlin’ doo!Looked in er cradle, but didn’t find you there—Looked f’r my wee, wee croodlin’ doo ever’where;Be’n kind lonesome all er day withouten you—Where you be’n, my teeny, wee, wee croodlin’ doo?Now you go balow, my little croodlin’ doo;Now you go rockaby ever so far,—Rockaby, rockaby up to the starThat’s winkin’ an’ blinkin’ an’ singin’ to you,As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!
HO, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin’ doo?Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin’ on the lea?Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me—Got a lump o’ sugar an’ a posie for you,Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!Why! here you are, my little croodlin’ doo!Looked in er cradle, but didn’t find you there—Looked f’r my wee, wee croodlin’ doo ever’where;Be’n kind lonesome all er day withouten you—Where you be’n, my teeny, wee, wee croodlin’ doo?Now you go balow, my little croodlin’ doo;Now you go rockaby ever so far,—Rockaby, rockaby up to the starThat’s winkin’ an’ blinkin’ an’ singin’ to you,As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!
HO, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin’ doo?Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin’ on the lea?Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me—Got a lump o’ sugar an’ a posie for you,Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!
Why! here you are, my little croodlin’ doo!Looked in er cradle, but didn’t find you there—Looked f’r my wee, wee croodlin’ doo ever’where;Be’n kind lonesome all er day withouten you—Where you be’n, my teeny, wee, wee croodlin’ doo?
Now you go balow, my little croodlin’ doo;Now you go rockaby ever so far,—Rockaby, rockaby up to the starThat’s winkin’ an’ blinkin’ an’ singin’ to you,As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!
LITTLE Mistress Sans-MerciFareth world-wide, fancy free:Trotteth cooing to and fro,And her cooing is command—Never ruled there yet, I trow,Mightier despot in the land.And my heart it lieth whereMistress Sans-Merci doth fare.Little Mistress Sans-Merci—She hath made a slave of me!“Go,” she biddeth, and I go—“Come,” and I am fain to come—Never mercy doth she show,Be she wroth or frolicsome,Yet am I content to beSlave to Mistress Sans-Merci!Little Mistress Sans-MerciHath become so dear to meThat I count as passing sweetAll the pain her moods impart,And I bless the little feetThat go trampling on my heart:Ah, how lonely life would beBut for little Sans-Merci!Little Mistress Sans-Merci,Cuddle close this night to me,And the heart, which all day longRuthless thou hast trod upon,Shall outpour a soothing songFor its best belovéd one—All its tenderness for thee,Little Mistress Sans-Merci!
LITTLE Mistress Sans-MerciFareth world-wide, fancy free:Trotteth cooing to and fro,And her cooing is command—Never ruled there yet, I trow,Mightier despot in the land.And my heart it lieth whereMistress Sans-Merci doth fare.Little Mistress Sans-Merci—She hath made a slave of me!“Go,” she biddeth, and I go—“Come,” and I am fain to come—Never mercy doth she show,Be she wroth or frolicsome,Yet am I content to beSlave to Mistress Sans-Merci!Little Mistress Sans-MerciHath become so dear to meThat I count as passing sweetAll the pain her moods impart,And I bless the little feetThat go trampling on my heart:Ah, how lonely life would beBut for little Sans-Merci!Little Mistress Sans-Merci,Cuddle close this night to me,And the heart, which all day longRuthless thou hast trod upon,Shall outpour a soothing songFor its best belovéd one—All its tenderness for thee,Little Mistress Sans-Merci!
LITTLE Mistress Sans-MerciFareth world-wide, fancy free:Trotteth cooing to and fro,And her cooing is command—Never ruled there yet, I trow,Mightier despot in the land.And my heart it lieth whereMistress Sans-Merci doth fare.
Little Mistress Sans-Merci—She hath made a slave of me!“Go,” she biddeth, and I go—“Come,” and I am fain to come—Never mercy doth she show,Be she wroth or frolicsome,Yet am I content to beSlave to Mistress Sans-Merci!
Little Mistress Sans-MerciHath become so dear to meThat I count as passing sweetAll the pain her moods impart,And I bless the little feetThat go trampling on my heart:Ah, how lonely life would beBut for little Sans-Merci!
Little Mistress Sans-Merci,Cuddle close this night to me,And the heart, which all day longRuthless thou hast trod upon,Shall outpour a soothing songFor its best belovéd one—All its tenderness for thee,Little Mistress Sans-Merci!
IONCE knew all the birds that cameAnd nested in our orchard trees,For every flower I had a name—My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;I knew where thrived in yonder glenWhat plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe—Oh, I was very learned then,But that was very long ago.I knew the spot upon the hillWhere checkerberries could be found,I knew the rushes near the millWhere pickerel lay that weighed a pound!I knew the wood—the very treeWhere lived the poaching, saucy crow,And all the woods and crows knew me—But that was very long ago.And pining for the joys of youth,I tread the old familiar spotOnly to learn this solemn truth:I have forgotten, am forgot.Yet here’s this youngster at my kneeKnows all the things I used to know;To think I once was wise as he!—But that was very long ago.I know it’s folly to complainOf whatsoe’er the fates decree,Yet, were not wishes all in vain,I tell you what my wish should be:I’d wish to be a boy again,Back with the friends I used to know.For I was, oh, so happy then—But that was very long ago!
IONCE knew all the birds that cameAnd nested in our orchard trees,For every flower I had a name—My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;I knew where thrived in yonder glenWhat plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe—Oh, I was very learned then,But that was very long ago.I knew the spot upon the hillWhere checkerberries could be found,I knew the rushes near the millWhere pickerel lay that weighed a pound!I knew the wood—the very treeWhere lived the poaching, saucy crow,And all the woods and crows knew me—But that was very long ago.And pining for the joys of youth,I tread the old familiar spotOnly to learn this solemn truth:I have forgotten, am forgot.Yet here’s this youngster at my kneeKnows all the things I used to know;To think I once was wise as he!—But that was very long ago.I know it’s folly to complainOf whatsoe’er the fates decree,Yet, were not wishes all in vain,I tell you what my wish should be:I’d wish to be a boy again,Back with the friends I used to know.For I was, oh, so happy then—But that was very long ago!
IONCE knew all the birds that cameAnd nested in our orchard trees,For every flower I had a name—My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees;I knew where thrived in yonder glenWhat plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe—Oh, I was very learned then,But that was very long ago.
I knew the spot upon the hillWhere checkerberries could be found,I knew the rushes near the millWhere pickerel lay that weighed a pound!I knew the wood—the very treeWhere lived the poaching, saucy crow,And all the woods and crows knew me—But that was very long ago.
And pining for the joys of youth,I tread the old familiar spotOnly to learn this solemn truth:I have forgotten, am forgot.Yet here’s this youngster at my kneeKnows all the things I used to know;To think I once was wise as he!—But that was very long ago.
I know it’s folly to complainOf whatsoe’er the fates decree,Yet, were not wishes all in vain,I tell you what my wish should be:I’d wish to be a boy again,Back with the friends I used to know.For I was, oh, so happy then—But that was very long ago!
THE fire upon the hearth is low,And there is stillness everywhere,And, like wing’d spirits, here and thereThe firelight shadows fluttering go.And as the shadows round me creep,A childish treble breaks the gloom,And softly from a further roomComes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.”And, somehow, with that little pray’rAnd that sweet treble in my ears,My thought goes back to distant years,And lingers with a dear one there;And as I hear my child’s amen,My mother’s faith comes back to me—Crouched at her side I seem to be,And mother holds my hands again.Oh, for an hour in that dear place—Oh, for the peace of that dear time—Oh, for that childish trust sublime—Oh, for a glimpse of mother’s face!Yet, as the shadows round me creep,I do not seem to be alone—Sweet magic of that treble toneAnd “Now I lay me down to sleep!”
THE fire upon the hearth is low,And there is stillness everywhere,And, like wing’d spirits, here and thereThe firelight shadows fluttering go.And as the shadows round me creep,A childish treble breaks the gloom,And softly from a further roomComes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.”And, somehow, with that little pray’rAnd that sweet treble in my ears,My thought goes back to distant years,And lingers with a dear one there;And as I hear my child’s amen,My mother’s faith comes back to me—Crouched at her side I seem to be,And mother holds my hands again.Oh, for an hour in that dear place—Oh, for the peace of that dear time—Oh, for that childish trust sublime—Oh, for a glimpse of mother’s face!Yet, as the shadows round me creep,I do not seem to be alone—Sweet magic of that treble toneAnd “Now I lay me down to sleep!”
THE fire upon the hearth is low,And there is stillness everywhere,And, like wing’d spirits, here and thereThe firelight shadows fluttering go.And as the shadows round me creep,A childish treble breaks the gloom,And softly from a further roomComes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.”
And, somehow, with that little pray’rAnd that sweet treble in my ears,My thought goes back to distant years,And lingers with a dear one there;And as I hear my child’s amen,My mother’s faith comes back to me—Crouched at her side I seem to be,And mother holds my hands again.
Oh, for an hour in that dear place—Oh, for the peace of that dear time—Oh, for that childish trust sublime—Oh, for a glimpse of mother’s face!Yet, as the shadows round me creep,I do not seem to be alone—Sweet magic of that treble toneAnd “Now I lay me down to sleep!”
Cobbler.
Stork, I am justly wroth,For thou hast wronged me sore;The ash roof-tree that shelters theeShall shelter thee no more!
Stork, I am justly wroth,For thou hast wronged me sore;The ash roof-tree that shelters theeShall shelter thee no more!
Stork, I am justly wroth,For thou hast wronged me sore;The ash roof-tree that shelters theeShall shelter thee no more!
Stork.
Full fifty years I’ve dweltUpon this honest tree,And long ago (as people know!)I brought thy father thee.What hail hath chilled thy heart,That thou shouldst bid me go?Speak out, I pray—then I’ll away,Since thou commandest so.
Full fifty years I’ve dweltUpon this honest tree,And long ago (as people know!)I brought thy father thee.What hail hath chilled thy heart,That thou shouldst bid me go?Speak out, I pray—then I’ll away,Since thou commandest so.
Full fifty years I’ve dweltUpon this honest tree,And long ago (as people know!)I brought thy father thee.What hail hath chilled thy heart,That thou shouldst bid me go?Speak out, I pray—then I’ll away,Since thou commandest so.
Cobbler.
Thou tellest of the timeWhen, wheeling from the west,This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’stUnto a mother’s breast.Iwas the wretched childWas fetched that dismal morn—’Twere better die than be (as I)To life of misery born!And hadst thou borne me onStill farther up the town,A king I’d be of high degree,And wear a golden crown!For yonder lives the princeWas brought that selfsame day:How happy he, while—look at me!I toil my life away!And see my little boy—To what estate he’s born!Why, when I die no hoard leave IBut poverty and scorn.Andthouhast done it all—I might have been a kingAnd ruled in state, but for thy hate,Thou base, perfidious thing!
Thou tellest of the timeWhen, wheeling from the west,This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’stUnto a mother’s breast.Iwas the wretched childWas fetched that dismal morn—’Twere better die than be (as I)To life of misery born!And hadst thou borne me onStill farther up the town,A king I’d be of high degree,And wear a golden crown!For yonder lives the princeWas brought that selfsame day:How happy he, while—look at me!I toil my life away!And see my little boy—To what estate he’s born!Why, when I die no hoard leave IBut poverty and scorn.Andthouhast done it all—I might have been a kingAnd ruled in state, but for thy hate,Thou base, perfidious thing!
Thou tellest of the timeWhen, wheeling from the west,This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’stUnto a mother’s breast.Iwas the wretched childWas fetched that dismal morn—’Twere better die than be (as I)To life of misery born!And hadst thou borne me onStill farther up the town,A king I’d be of high degree,And wear a golden crown!For yonder lives the princeWas brought that selfsame day:How happy he, while—look at me!I toil my life away!And see my little boy—To what estate he’s born!Why, when I die no hoard leave IBut poverty and scorn.Andthouhast done it all—I might have been a kingAnd ruled in state, but for thy hate,Thou base, perfidious thing!
Stork.
Since, cobbler, thou dost speakOf one thou lovest well,Hear of that king what grievous thingThis very morn befell.Whilst round thy homely benchThy well-belovéd played,In yonder hall beneath a pallA little one was laid;Thy well-belovéd’s faceWas rosy with delight,But ’neath that pall in yonder hallThe little face is white;Whilst by a merry voiceThy soul is filled with cheer,Another weeps for one that sleepsAll mute and cold anear;One father hath his hope,And one is childless now;Hewears a crown and rules a town—Only a cobblerthou!Wouldst thou exchange thy lotAt price of such a woe?I’ll nest no more above thy door,But, as thou bidst me, go.
Since, cobbler, thou dost speakOf one thou lovest well,Hear of that king what grievous thingThis very morn befell.Whilst round thy homely benchThy well-belovéd played,In yonder hall beneath a pallA little one was laid;Thy well-belovéd’s faceWas rosy with delight,But ’neath that pall in yonder hallThe little face is white;Whilst by a merry voiceThy soul is filled with cheer,Another weeps for one that sleepsAll mute and cold anear;One father hath his hope,And one is childless now;Hewears a crown and rules a town—Only a cobblerthou!Wouldst thou exchange thy lotAt price of such a woe?I’ll nest no more above thy door,But, as thou bidst me, go.
Since, cobbler, thou dost speakOf one thou lovest well,Hear of that king what grievous thingThis very morn befell.Whilst round thy homely benchThy well-belovéd played,In yonder hall beneath a pallA little one was laid;Thy well-belovéd’s faceWas rosy with delight,But ’neath that pall in yonder hallThe little face is white;Whilst by a merry voiceThy soul is filled with cheer,Another weeps for one that sleepsAll mute and cold anear;One father hath his hope,And one is childless now;Hewears a crown and rules a town—Only a cobblerthou!Wouldst thou exchange thy lotAt price of such a woe?I’ll nest no more above thy door,But, as thou bidst me, go.
Cobbler.