Kitabı oku: «In My Nursery», sayfa 5

PEEPSY

[After the manner of Jane Taylor.]

 
Our Julia has a little bird,
And Peepsy is his name;
And now I'll sing a little song
To celebrate the same.
 
 
He's yellow all from head to foot,
And he is very sweet,
And very little trouble, for
He never wants to eat.
 
 
He never asks for water clear,
He never chirps for seed,
For cracker, or for cuttlefish,
For sugar or chickweed.
 
 
"Oh! what a perfect pet!" you cry,
But there's one little thing,
One drawback to the bonny bird, —
Our Peepsy cannot sing.
 
 
He chirps no song at dawn or eve,
He makes no merry din;
But this one cannot wonder at,
For Peepsy's made of tin.
 

MAY SONG

 
On a certain First of May,
So they say,
Came two merry little maids
Out to play.
Brown-haired Jeanie, sweet and wise,
Fair-haired Norah, with her eyes
Blue as are the morning skies.
Each in cap and kirtle gay,
Pretty little maids were they;
Light of heart and well content,
Through the fields they singing went,
On a merry First of May,
So they say.
 
 
On this merry First of May,
So they say,
Came two sturdy little lads
By that way.
Miller's Robin from the mill,
Shepherd's Johnnie from the hill;
Bonny little lads, I trow,
Sunny eyes and open brow,
Ruddy cheeks and curly hair,
Sturdy legs all brown and bare,
Through the fields they marched along,
Whistling each his cheery song,
On a merry First of May,
So they say.
 
 
On this merry First of May,
So they say,
Lads and lasses, there they met
On their way.
Said the lads, "We'll choose a queen!
May Day comes but once, I ween.
Search we all the country round,
Sweeter maids could not be found."
Laughed the lasses merrily,
"Ay! but which one shall it be?
John and Robin, tell us true,
Which is fairer of the two,
On this merry First of May?
Quickly say!"
 
 
On this merry First of May,
So they say,
Shepherd Johnnie hushed his whistle
Blithe and gay;
"Brown eyes are more fair," said he,
"For they shine so winsomely!"
"Nay!" quoth Robin, "'tis confessed
Blue eyes always are the best!
Fair-haired Norah wins the prize!"
"That she does not!" Johnnie cries;
"Norah's well enough, but Jean,
Brown and sweet, shall be the queen
On this merry First of May!
Choose my way!"
 
 
On this merry First of May,
So they say,
Soon to earnest turned their play.
Well-a-day!
Loud and angry words arose,
Angry words soon turned to blows;
John and Robin o'er the ground
Chase each other round and round,
Kicking, cuffing, here and there,
Shouting through the sweet May air:
"Jeanie!" "Norah! – is more fair!"
While the little maids aside,
Blue eyes, brown eyes, open wide
On this stormy First of May,
Well-a-day!
 
 
On this merry First of May,
So they say,
Jean and Norah stole away
From the fray.
"Silly lads!" they laughing cried,
"Let them as they will decide;
Shall we while they quarrel, pray,
Lose our pretty holiday?
Come away, and we may find
Other lads, who know their mind.
Or if not, why then, I ween,
Each will be the other's queen,
On this merry First of May.
Come away!"
 

TWO LITTLE VALENTINES

[For two little girls.]

I

 
Young Rosalind, she is my rose!
I care not who the secret knows;
So deep within my heart she grows,
Her constant bloom no winter knows;
Sweet Rosalind, she is my rose.
 
 
Alas! this rose hath yet a thorn,
Whereon my heart is daily torn.
The love I proffer her each morn,
That love she flings me back in scorn.
But shall I therefore idly mourn?
She'd be no rose without the thorn.
 

II

 
When the ivory lily darkens,
When the jealous rose turns pale,
Then I say, "My Julia's coming!
'Tis a sign will never fail."
 
 
When the bobolink is silent,
When the linnet stays her trill,
Then I say, "My Julia's singing!
At her voice the birds are still."
 
 
When I feel two velvet rose-leaves
Touch my eyes on either lid,
Then I say, "My Julia kissed me!"
And she answers, "Yes, me did!"
 

A HOWL ABOUT AN OWL

 
It was an owl lived in an oak,
Sing heigh ho! the prowly owl!
He often smiled, but he seldom spoke,
And he wore a wig and a camlet cloak.
Sing heigh ho! the howly fowl!
Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whoo!
 
 
He fell in love with the chickadee,
Sing heigh ho! the prowly owl!
He askèd her, would she marry he,
And they'd go and live in Crim Tartaree.
Sing heigh ho! the howly fowl!
Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whoo!
 
 
"'Tis true," says he, "you are far from big."
Sing heigh ho! the prowly owl!
"But you'll look twice as well when I've bought you a wig,
And I'll teach you the Lancers and the Chorus Jig."
Sing heigh ho! the howly fowl!
Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whoo!
 
 
"I'll feed you with honey when the moon grows pale."
Sing heigh ho! the prowly owl!
"I'll hum you a hymn, and I'll sing you a scale,
Till you quiver with delight to the tip of your tail!"
Sing heigh ho! the howly fowl!
Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whoo!
 
 
So he went for to marry of the chickadee,
Sing heigh ho! the prowly owl!
But the sun was so bright that he could not see,
So he marrièd the hoppergrass instead of she.
And wasn't that a sad disappointment for he!
Sing heigh ho! the howly fowl!
Tu-whit! tu-whit! tu-whoo!
 

OUR CELEBRATION

 
Off go the fire-crackers, bang! bang! bang!
Off go the fire-crackers, bang! bang! bang!
Popguns all a-snapping, and banners all a-flapping, —
Off go the fire-crackers, bang! bang! bang!
 
 
Off the torpedoes go, crack! crack! crack!
Off the torpedoes go, crack! crack! crack!
Fish-horns all a-tooting, and schoolboys all a-hooting, —
Off the torpedoes go, crack! crack! crack!
 
 
Off go the fireworks, fizz! fizz! fizz!
Off go the fireworks, fizz! fizz! fizz!
Pin-wheels all a-turning, and fingers all a-burning, —
Off go the fireworks, fizz! fizz! fizz!
 
 
Off goes our little Ned, boo-hoo-hoo!
Off goes our little Ned, boo-hoo-hoo!
Big hole in his jacket, and another in his pocket,
Half the hair singed off his head,
Off goes our little Ned, —
Mamma'll put him straight to bed, boo-hoo-hoo!
 

THE SONG OF THE CORN-POPPER

 
Pip! pop! flippety flop!
Here am I, all ready to pop.
Girls and boys, the fire burns clear;
Gather about the chimney here.
Big ones, little ones, all in a row.
Hop away! pop away! here we go!
 
 
Pip! pop! flippety flop!
Into the bowl the kernels drop.
Sharp and hard and yellow and small;
Must say they don't look good at all.
But wait till they burst into warm white snow!
Hop away! pop away! here we go!
 
 
Pip! pop! flippety flop!
Don't fill me too full; shut down the top!
Rake out the coals in an even bed,
Topaz yellow and ruby red;
Shade your eyes from the fiery glow.
Hop away! pop away! here we go!
 
 
Pip! pop! flippety flop!
Shake me steadily; do not stop!
Backward and forward, not up and down;
Don't let me drop, or you'll burn it brown.
Never too high and never too low.
Hop away! pop away! here we go!
 
 
Pip! pop! flippety flop!
Now they are singing, and soon they'll hop.
Hi! the kernels begin to swell;
Ho! at last they are dancing well.
Puffs and fluffs of feathery snow,
Hop away! pop away! here we go!
 
 
Pip! pop! flippety flop!
All full, little ones? Time to stop!
Pour out the snowy, feathery mass;
Here is a treat for lad and lass.
Open your mouths now, all in a row;
Munch away! crunch away! here we go!
 

WHAT BOBBY SAID

 
I don't think it's right!
I don't think it's fair!
I don't like Easter
At all! so there!
 
 
It's only because
I'm young, you see,
They think they can play
Their tricks upon me.
 
 
They brought me an egg,
And a beauty, too!
All golden yellow,
With stripes of blue.
 
 
They said 'twas a true egg,
A truly true!
And, of course, I supposed
It was so all through;
 
 
But when it was opened,
Just think what a shame!
'Twas just like the white ones,
Just 'zactly the same!
 
 
Part white and part yellow,
No bit of it blue,
And it tasted the same
As the other ones, too.
 
 
I don't think it's right,
And I don't think it's fair,
And I don't like Easter
At all! so there!
 

MASTER JACK'S VIEWS

[After a lesson in astronomy.]

 
The merry old World goes round, goes round,
And round the old World does go;
Day in, day out, from west to east,
At a pace that is far from slow.
 
 
And he's never been known to change his pace,
Or swerve an inch from his course,
Though his journey so easily shortened might be,
By cutting his orbit across.
 
 
If I were you, you silly old World,
I know well what I 'd do:
Break loose from that tiresome orbit-track,
And go spinning the Universe through.
 
 
I'd startle the stars from their morning nap,
With a "How do you do to-day?"
And before any one could take off his night-cap,
I'd be millions of miles away.
 
 
I'd warm my hands at the gate of the Sun,
And cool them off at the Pole;
Then off and away down the Milky Way,
How merrily I would roll!
 
 
I'd steal from Saturn his golden rings,
From Mars his mantle of red;
And I'd borrow the sword of Orion the brave,
To cut off the Serpent's head.
 
 
I'd saddle the Bear, and ride on his back,
Nor dream of being afraid;
And maybe I'd stop at the Archer's shop,
To see how the rainbows are made.
 
 
I'd race with the comets, I'd flirt with the moon,
I'd waltz with the Northern Lights,
Till the whole Solar System should hold up its hands
And exclaim, "What remarkable sights!"
 
 
But stay! to all these delightful things
One slight objection I see;
For if the World should play these wonderful pranks.
Pray, what would become of me?
 
 
And what would become of papa and mamma?
And what would become of you?
And how should we like to go spinning about,
And careering the Universe through?
 
 
Well, the merry old World goes round, goes round,
And round the old World does go;
And a great deal better than you or I,
The wise old World must know!
 

EMILY JANE

 
Oh! Christmas time is coming again,
And what shall I buy for Emily Jane?
O Emily Jane, my love so true,
Now what upon earth shall I buy for you?
My Emily Jane, my doll so dear,
I've loved you now for many a year,
And still while there's anything left of you,
My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!
 
 
My Emily Jane has lost her head,
And has a potato tied on instead;
A hole for an eye, and a lump for a nose,
It really looks better than you would suppose.
My Emily Jane has lost her arms,
The half of one leg's the extent of her charms;
But still, while there's anything left of you,
My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!
 
 
And now, shall I bring you a fine new head,
Or shall I bring you a leg instead?
Or will you have arms, to hug me tight,
When naughty 'Lizabeth calls you a fright?
Or I'll buy you a dress of satin so fine,
'Mong all the dolls to shimmer and shine;
For oh! while there's anything left of you,
My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!
 
 
Mamma says, "Keep all your pennies, Sue,
And I'll buy you a doll all whole and new;"
But better I love my dear old doll,
With her one half-leg and potato poll.
"The potato may rot, and the leg may fall?"
Well, then I shall treasure the sawdust, that's all!
For while there is anything left of you,
My Emily Jane, I'll love you true!
 

SONG OF THE MOTHER WHOSE CHILDREN ARE FOND OF DRAWING

 
Oh, could I find the forest
Where the pencil-trees grow!
Oh, might I see their stately stems
All standing in a row!
I'd hie me to their grateful shade;
In deep, in deepest bliss;
For then I need not hourly hear
A chorus such as this:
 
 
Chorus. Oh, lend me a pencil, please, Mamma!
Oh, draw me some houses and trees, Mamma!
Oh, make me a floppy
Great poppy to copy,
And a horsey that prances and gees, Mamma!
 
 
The branches of the pencil-tree
Are pointed every one;
Ay! each one has a glancing point
That glitters in the sun.
The leaves are leaves of paper white,
All fluttering in the breeze;
Ah! could I pluck one rustling bough,
I'd silence cries like these:
 
 
Chorus. Oh, lend me a pencil, do, Mamma!
I've got mine all stuck in the glue, Mamma!
Oh, make me a pretty
Big barn and a city,
And a cow and a steam-engine too, Mamma!
 
 
The fruit upon the pencil-tree
Hangs ripening in the sun,
In clusters bright of pocket-knives, —
Three blades to every one.
Ah! might I pluck one shining fruit,
And plant it by my door,
The pleading cries, the longing sighs,
Would trouble me no more.
 
 
Chorus. Oh, sharpen a pencil for me, Mamma!
'Cause Johnny and Baby have three, Mamma!
And this isn't fine!
And Hal sat down on mine!
So do it bee-yu-ti-ful-lee, Mamma!
 

THE SEVEN LITTLE TIGERS AND THE AGED COOK

 
Seven little tigers they sat them in a row,
Their seven little dinners for to eat;
And each of the troop had a little plate of soup,
The effect of which was singularly neat.
 
 
They were feeling rather cross, for they hadn't any sauce
To eat with their pudding or their pie;
So they rumpled up their hair, in a spasm of despair,
And vowed that the aged cook should die.
 
 
Then they called the aged cook, and a frying-pan they took,
To fry him very nicely for their supper;
He was ninety-six years old, on authority I'm told,
And his name was Peter Sparrow-piper Tupper.
 
 
"Mr. Sparrow-piper Tup, we intend on you to sup!"
Said the eldest little tiger very sweetly;
But this naughty aged cook, just remarking, "Only look!"
Chopped the little tiger's head off very neatly.
 
 
Then he said unto the rest, "It has always been confessed
That a tiger's better eating than a man;
So I'll fry him for you now, and you all will find, I trow,
That to eat him will be much the better plan."
 
 
So they tried it in a trice, and found that it was nice,
And with rapture they embracèd one another;
And they said, "By hook or crook, we must keep this aged cook;
So we'll ask him to become our elder brother."
 

[Which they accordingly did.]

AGAMEMNON

 
About a king I have to tell,
Of all the woes that him befell
Through those who should have served him well,
Poor Agamemnon!
How he was huffed and cuffed about,
And tossed from windows, in and out,
With jest and gibe and eldritch shout,
Poor Agamemnon!
 
 
Of worsted was the monarch made,
Of gayest colors neatly laid
In each imaginable shade,
Poor Agamemnon!
His trousers were of scarlet hue,
His jacket of celestial blue,
With snow-white tunic peeping through,
Poor Agamemnon!
 
 
When he was young and in his prime,
On Christmas tree, in Christmas time,
He glowed like bird of tropic clime,
Poor Agamemnon!
His swarthy cheek, his beard of brown,
His gay attire and golden crown,
Showed him a king of high renown,
Poor Agamemnon!
 
 
The children, learning then to pore
O'er Father Homer's god-like lore,
Cried, "See! the king of men once more,
Great Agamemnon!
Now, when we play the siege of Troy,
Achilles, Hector, Ajax boy,
With us the fighting he'll enjoy,
Great Agamemnon!"
 
 
But well-a-day! the war began,
And Greek and Trojan, man to man,
In god-like fury raged and ran,
Poor Agamemnon!
'Twas Ajax seized the king, I trow,
And, using him as weapon now,
Did smite bold Hector on the brow,
Poor Agamemnon!
 
 
Then fierce and fell the contest grew;
From hand to hand the monarch flew,
Still clutched and hurled with fury new,
Poor Agamemnon!
His beaded eyes wept tears of shame,
His worsted cheeks with wrath did flame;
In vain he called each hero's name,
Poor Agamemnon!
 
 
At length great Hector seized the king
And gave his mighty arm a swing,
Then upward soared with sudden fling,
Poor Agamemnon!
Upon the high-pitched roof fell he,
And there, from Greek and Trojan free,
He lay for all the world to see,
Poor Agamemnon!
 
 
The fierce sun beat upon his head,
The rain washed white his trousers red,
The moon looked down on him and said,
"Poor Agamemnon!"
His gold and blue were gray and brown,
When Ajax, chief of high renown,
The roof-tree scaled, and brought him down,
Poor Agamemnon!
 
 
And now within the nursery,
In doll-house parlor you may see
His dim and faded majesty,
Poor Agamemnon!
And still each little naughty boy,
Ranging the cupboards for some toy,
Cries out, "Aha! the siege of Troy!
Poor Agamemnon!"
 

THE WEDDING

 
Blue-bell, bonny bell, ring for the wedding!
Gallant young Hyacinth marries the Rose.
Here we all wait for the wedding procession,
Standing up high on our tippy-toe-toes.
 
 
Blue-bell, bonny bell, ring for the wedding!
First the three ushers on grasshoppers ride, —
Coxcomb, Larkspur, and gallant Sweet William,
Handsome young dandies as ever I spied.
 
 
Here in a coach come the bride's rich relations, —
Old Madam Damask and old Mr. Moss;
Greatly I fear they approve not the marriage,
Else they'd not look so uncommonly cross.
 
 
Here comes His Excellence Baron de Goldbug,
Leading the Dowager Duchess of Snail;
Feathers and fringe on the top of her bonnet,
Roses and rings on the end of her tail.
 
 
Blue-bell, bonny bell, ring for the wedding!
Here come the bridesmaids, by two and by two;
Gay little Primrose, fair little Snowdrop,
Peachblossom, Jasmine, and Eglantine too.
 
 
Last come the lovers, wrapped up in each other,
Thinking of love, and of little beside.
Blue-bell, bonny bell, ring for the wedding!
Health and long life to the beautiful bride!
 

SWING SONG

 
As I swing, as I swing,
Here beneath my mother's wing,
Here beneath my mother's arm,
Never earthly thing can harm.
Up and down, to and fro,
With a steady sweep I go,
Like a swallow on the wing,
As I swing, as I swing.
 
 
As I swing, as I swing,
Honey-bee comes murmuring,
Humming softly in my ear,
"Come away with me, my dear!
In the tiger-lily's cup
Sweetest honey we will sup."
Go away, you velvet thing!
I must swing! I must swing!
 
 
As I swing, as I swing,
Butterfly comes fluttering,
"Little child, now come away
'Mid the clover-blooms to play;
Clover-blooms are red and white,
Sky is blue, and sun is bright.
Why then thus, with folded wing,
Sit and swing, sit and swing?"
 
 
As I swing, as I swing,
Oriole comes hovering.
"See my nest in yonder tree!
Little child, come work with me.
 
 
Learn to make a perfect nest,
That of all things is the best.
Come! nor longer loitering
Sit and swing, sit and swing!"
 
 
As I swing, as I swing,
Though I have not any wing,
Still I would not change with you,
Happiest bird that ever flew.
Butterfly and honey-bee,
Sure 'tis you must envy me,
Safe beneath my mother's wing
As I swing, as I swing.
 

THE LITTLE COSSACK

 
The tale of the little Cossack,
Who lived by the river Don:
He sat on a sea-green hassock,
And his grandfather's name was John.
His grandfather's name was John, my dears,
And he lived upon bottled stout;
And when he was found to be not at home,
He was frequently found to be out.
 
 
The tale of the little Cossack, —
He sat by the river-side,
And wept when he heard the people say
That his hair was probably dyed.
That his hair was probably dyed, my dears,
And his teeth were undoubtedly sham;
"If this be true," quoth the little Cossàck,
"What a poor little thing I am!"
 
 
The tale of the little Cossack, —
He sat by the river's brim,
And he looked at the little fishes,
And the fishes looked back at him.
The fishes looked back at him, my dears,
And winked at him, which was wuss;
"If this be true, my friend," they said,
"You'd better come down to us."
 
 
The tale of the little Cossack, —
He said, "You are doubtless right,
Though drowning is not a becoming death
For it makes one look like a fright.
If my lovely teeth be crockery,
And my hair of Tyrian dye,
Then life is a bitter mockery,
And no more of it will I!"
 
 
The tale of the little Cossack, —
He drank of the stout so brown;
Then put his toes in the water,
And the fishes dragged him down.
And the people threw in his hassock
And likewise his grandfather John;
And there was an end of the family,
On the banks of the river Don.
 

WHAT A VERY RUDE LITTLE BIRD SAID TO JOHNNY THIS MORNING

 
Thing with two legs, out on the lawn!
Stupid old thing!
Why don't you fly, or hop at least?
Why don't you sing?
There you stand with your great long legs
Stiff as a couple of giant pegs;
Have you a nest with five blue eggs?
Have you anything?
 
 
Thing with two legs, out on the lawn!
Stubborn old thing!
Is that your only song, that harsh,
Loud muttering?
Here! listen, and try to imitate me!
Chirr-a-wink! chirr-a-wink! pirrip-wip-wee!
It's just as easy as easy can be,
Stubborn old thing!
 
 
Thing with two legs, out on the lawn!
Ugly old thing!
I hear my little brown wife in the nest
Soft chirruping.
And if you think I've nothing else to do
But stay here and talk to the like of you,
You're greatly mistaken, I tell you true!
Good-by, old thing!
 

THE MONKEYS AND THE CROCODILE

 
Five little monkeys
Swinging from a tree;
Teasing Uncle Crocodile,
Merry as can be.
Swinging high, swinging low,
Swinging left and right:
"Dear Uncle Crocodile,
Come and take a bite!"
 
 
Five little monkeys
Swinging in the air;
Heads up, tails up,
Little do they care.
Swinging up, swinging down,
Swinging far and near:
"Poor Uncle Crocodile,
Aren't you hungry, dear?"
 
 
Four little monkeys
Sitting in the tree;
Heads down, tails down,
Dreary as can be.
Weeping loud, weeping low,
Crying to each other:
"Wicked Uncle Crocodile,
To gobble up our brother!"
 

Painted Ladies

 
Oh, the pretty painted ladies!
Oh, the naughty painted ladies,
That go running, climbing, running,
All about my cottage door.
Would you have their story, Johnny?
Sit beside me, Sweet-and-bonny!
You shall hear a sadder story
Than you ever beard before.
 
 
These were maidens fair and slender,
Some with dove-eyes, brown and tender,
Some with black, and some with blue eyes,
Locks of auburn, locks of gold.
Rosy cheeks, and lips of cherry,
Voices glad and laughter merry,
Ever smiling, ever singing,
Over gay and over bold.
 
 
And these maids were ever running,
Watching going, watching coming,
Asking questions of each other
And of every one they knew.
Peeping, peeping, here and yonder,
Ready still to guess and wonder,
"Was it she?" "And did he do it?"
"Tell me quickly!" "Tell me true!"
 
 
Oh, the pretty painted ladies!
Oh, the naughty painted ladies!
When the king came riding, riding,
For to seek him out a bride,
How they whispered, how they chattered;
Each herself in secret flattered
She could win him, she could wed him,
In an hour, if she tried.
 
 
So they prinked and pranked them gayly,
So they crimped and curled them daily,
Trying ring and trying jewel,
All their beauty to complete.
Not content with Nature's roses,
Fie! their cheeks are painted posies;
And their lips are red and reddest,
But alas! they are not sweet.
 
 
Then the king came riding stately,
On his charger set sedately,
With his golden robe about him,
And his crown upon his head.
Oh! a royal port and presence,
Meet for courtly love and pleasance;
Happy, happy is the maiden
He shall woo and he shall wed.
 
 
Oh, the pretty painted ladies!
Oh, the naughty painted ladies!
How they leaned from door and window,
Flinging roses 'neath his feet;
Silken robes and jewels shining,
White arms waving, tossing, twining,
Lips that laughed and eyes that languished,
Over bold and over sweet.
 
 
But the king looked gravely on them;
Cast no answering glance upon them;
Coldly turned from where they waited
In their beauty, in their pride.
"Find me out some modest maiden,
Not with silks and jewels laden,
One whose pureness, one whose sweetness
Fit her for a royal bride."
 
 
Oh, the pretty painted ladies!
Oh, the naughty painted ladies!
Red with shame and white with anger,
Back they pressed against the wall.
As they drew their silks around them,
Lo! some sudden magic bound them,
While they whispered, while they clustered,
Into flowers changed them all.
 
 
Glowing cheek and snowy bosom
Changed to white and ruddy blossom;
Locks of gold and locks of auburn
Into tendrils curling green.
While for silk and satin's shimmer,
And for jewels' rainbow glimmer,
Leaves that whispered, leaves that clustered, —
Only these were to be seen.
 
 
But the pretty painted ladies,
But the naughty painted ladies,
Still are running, climbing, running,
At the window, at the door.
Peeping, peeping, here and yonder,
"Is the story true?" you wonder;
Sure, I heard it from themselves, dear,
For they tell it o'er and o'er.