Chapter 8

The Little Child

THE FROST.

“Jack Frost,” by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for science to give him a true analysis.

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height, In silence I’ll take my way: I will not go on with that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I’ll be as busy as they.”

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads--and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That hung on its margin far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things--there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair; He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare-- “Now just to set them a-thinking, I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, “This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three, And the glass of water they’ve left for me Shall ‘_tchich!_’ to tell them I’m drinking.”

HANNAH FLAGG GOULD.

THE OWL.

When cats run home and light is come, And 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 thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

LITTLE BILLEE.

“Little Billee,” by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-63), finds a place here because it carries a good lesson good-naturedly rendered. An accomplished teacher recommends it, and I recollect two young children in Chicago who sang it frequently for years without getting tired of it.

There were three sailors of Bristol city Who took a boat and went to sea. But first with beef and captain’s biscuits And pickled pork they loaded she.

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they got so far as the Equator They’d nothing left but one split pea.

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “I am extremely hungaree.” To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, “We’ve nothing left, us must eat we.”

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, “With one another, we shouldn’t agree! There’s little Bill, he’s young and tender, We’re old and tough, so let’s eat he.”

“Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie.” When Bill received this information He used his pocket-handkerchie.

“First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mammy taught to me.” “Make haste, make haste,” says guzzling Jimmy While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.

So Billy went up to the main-topgallant mast, And down he fell on his bended knee. He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps, “There’s land I see.

“Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee: There’s the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K.C.B.”

So when they got aboard of the Admiral’s He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee; But as for little Bill, he made him The Captain of a Seventy-three.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.

“The Butterfly and the Bee,” by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), is recommended by some school-girls. It carries a lesson in favour of the worker.

Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a labouring bee: “Thou hast no colours of the sky On painted wings like me.”

“Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colours bright and rare,” With mild reproof, the bee replies, “Are all beneath my care.

“Content I toil from morn to eve, And scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress.”

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

“An Incident of the French Camp,” by Robert Browning (1812-89), is included in this volume out of regard to a boy of eight years who did not care for many poems, but this one stirred his heart to its depths.

You know, we French storm’d Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms lock’d behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mus’d “My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,”-- Out ’twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reach’d the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse’s mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compress’d, Scarce any blood came through) You look’d twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace We’ve got you Ratisbon! The Marshal’s in the market-place, And you’ll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart’s desire, Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief’s eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle’s eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; “You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

“Robert of Lincoln,” by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), is one of the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal School (Colonel Parker’s school), year after year, and because my own pupils invariably like to commit it to memory. With the child of six to the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight.

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice, new coat is mine; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature, you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man, Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nice good wife that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood: Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care, Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I, Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln’s a hum-drum drone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

OLD GRIMES.

“Old Grimes” is an heirloom, an antique gem. We learn it as a matter of course for its sparkle and glow.

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man, We ne’er shall see him more; He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray, He wore it in a queue.

He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.

He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbours he did not abuse, Was sociable and gay; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune’s chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman.

ALBERT GORTON GREENE.

SONG OF LIFE.

A traveller on a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening-time, To breathe its early vows; And Age was pleased, in heights of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore-- It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn. He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle on the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that Toil might drink. He passed again; and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parchéd tongues, And saved a life beside.

A nameless man, amid the crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied from the heart, A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath, It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last.

CHARLES MACKAY.

FAIRY SONG.

Shed no tear! O shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root’s white core. Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies-- Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead! ’Mong the blossoms white and red-- Look up, look up. I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me! ’tis this silvery bell Ever cures the good man’s ill. Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! The flowers will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu--I fly, adieu, I vanish in the heaven’s blue-- Adieu, adieu!

JOHN KEATS.

A BOY’S SONG

“A Boy’s Song,” by James Hogg (1770-1835), is a sparkling poem, very attractive to children.

Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and o’er the lea, That’s the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That’s the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to trace the homeward bee, That’s the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free. That’s the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away, Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That’s the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and o’er the lea, That’s the way for Billy and me.

JAMES HOGG.

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES.

Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers, Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours. While the tree are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies Spring up here and there.

Ere the snowdrop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold, Somewhere on the sunny bank Buttercups are bright; Somewhere ’mong the frozen grass Peeps the daisy white.

Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother’s door, Purple with the north wind, Yet alert and bold; Fearing not, and caring not, Though they be a-cold!

What to them is winter! What are stormy showers! Buttercups and daisies Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardships And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength And patient hearts to bear.

MARY HOWITT.

THE RAINBOW.

Triumphal arch, that fills the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

OLD IRONSIDES.

“Old Ironsides,” by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-94), is learned readily. Children are untouched by the commercial spirit which is the reproach of this age. “Ingratitude is the vice of republics,” and this poem puts to shame the love of money and the spirit of ingratitude that could let a national servant become a wreck.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon’s roar;-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o’er the flood And waves were white below. No more shall feel the victor’s tread, Or know the conquered knee; The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE.

“Little Orphant Annie” certainly earns her “board and keep” when she has “washed the dishes,” “swept up the crumbs,” “driven the chickens from the porch,” and done all the other odds and ends of work on a farm. The poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1853-), has shown how truly a little child may be overtaxed and yet preserve a brave spirit and keen imagination. Children invariably love to learn this poem.

Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay, An’ wash the cups and saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away, An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep, An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep; An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about, An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!

Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his pray’rs-- An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, His mammy heerd him holler, an’ his daddy heerd him bawl, An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all! An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby hole, an’ press, An’ seeked him up the chimbly flue, an’ ever’-wheres, I guess; But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout! An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!

An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin, An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin; An’ onc’t when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there, She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care! An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side, An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she’s about! An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo! An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray, An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers fond an’ dear, An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear, An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out!

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

“O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman (1819-92), is placed here out of compliment to a little boy aged ten who wanted to recite it once a week for a year. This song and Edwin Markham’s poem on Lincoln are two of the greatest tributes ever paid to that hero.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

INGRATITUDE.

“Ingratitude,” by William Shakespeare (1564-1616), is an incisive thrust at a refined vice. It is a part of education to learn to be grateful.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou are not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou are not seen, Although thy breath be rude.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE IVY GREEN.

“The Ivy Green,” by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England.

O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed. To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy’s food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.

CHARLES DICKENS.

THE NOBLE NATURE.

“The Noble Nature,” by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea. A small virtue well polished is better than none.

It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,-- It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

THE FLYING SQUIRREL.

“The Flying Squirrel” is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem.

Of all the woodland creatures, The quaintest little sprite Is the dainty flying squirrel In vest of shining white, In coat of silver gray, And vest of shining white.

His furry Quaker jacket Is trimmed with stripe of black; A furry plume to match it Is curling o’er his back; New curved with every motion, His plume curls o’er his back.

No little new-born baby Has pinker feet than he; Each tiny toe is cushioned With velvet cushions three; Three wee, pink, velvet cushions Almost too small to see.

Who said, “The foot of baby Might tempt an angel’s kiss”? I know a score of school-boys Who put their lips to this,-- This wee foot of the squirrel, And left a loving kiss.

The tiny thief has hidden My candy and my plum; Ah, there he comes unbidden To gently nip my thumb,-- Down in his home (my pocket) He gently nips my thumb.

How strange the food he covets, The restless, restless wight;-- Fred’s old stuffed armadillo He found a tempting bite, Fred’s old stuffed armadillo, With ears a perfect fright.

The Lady Ruth’s great bureau, Each foot a dragon’s paw! The midget ate the nails from His famous antique claw. Oh, what a cruel beastie To hurt a dragon’s claw!

To autographic copies Upon my choicest shelf,-- To every dainty volume The rogue has helped himself. My books! Oh dear! No matter! The rogue has helped himself.

And yet, my little squirrel, Your taste is not so bad; You’ve swallowed Caird completely And psychologic Ladd. Rosmini you’ve digested, And Kant in rags you’ve clad.

Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! Lay all the sages low! My pretty lace and ribbons, They’re yours for weal or woe! My pocket-book’s in tatters Because you like it so.

MARY E. BURT.

WARREN’S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS.

There is never a boy who objects to learning “Warren’s Address,” by John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one’s own rights is inherent in every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns’s “Bannockburn.” (1785-1866.)

Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What’s the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they’re afire! And, before you, see Who have done it!--From the vale On they come!--And will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the God of battles trust! Die we may,--and die we must; But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot’s bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!

JOHN PIERPONT.

THE SONG IN CAMP.

“The Song in Camp” is Bayard Taylor’s best effort as far as young boys and girls are concerned. It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since then “Annie Laurie” has become the song of the Labour party. “The Song in Camp” voices a universal feeling. (1825-78.)

“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said, “We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.”

They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory: Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Laurie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Laurie.”

Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured rest Your truth and valour wearing: The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE BUGLE SONG.

“The Bugle Song” (by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-90), says Heydrick, “has for its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable for sweetness and delicacy.”

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE “THREE BELLS” OF GLASGOW.

“The Three Bells of Glasgow,” by Whittier (1807-92), cannot be praised too highly for its ethical value. Children always love to learn it after hearing it read correctly and by one who understands and appreciates it. “Stand by” is the motto. My pupils teach it to me once a year and learn it themselves, too.

Beneath the low-hung night cloud That raked her splintering mast The good ship settled slowly, The cruel leak gained fast.

Over the awful ocean Her signal guns pealed out. Dear God! was that Thy answer From the horror round about?

A voice came down the wild wind, “Ho! ship ahoy!” its cry: “Our stout _Three Bells_ of Glasgow Shall stand till daylight by!”

Hour after hour crept slowly, Yet on the heaving swells Tossed up and down the ship-lights, The lights of the _Three Bells_!

And ship to ship made signals, Man answered back to man, While oft, to cheer and hearten, The _Three Bells_ nearer ran:

And the captain from her taffrail Sent down his hopeful cry. “Take heart! Hold on!” he shouted, “The _Three Bells_ shall stand by!”

All night across the waters The tossing lights shone clear; All night from reeling taffrail The _Three Bells_ sent her cheer.

And when the dreary watches Of storm and darkness passed, Just as the wreck lurched under, All souls were saved at last.

Sail on, _Three Bells_, forever, In grateful memory sail! Ring on, _Three Bells_ of rescue, Above the wave and gale!

Type of the Love eternal, Repeat the Master’s cry, As tossing through our darkness The lights of God draw nigh!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

SHERIDAN’S RIDE.

There never was a boy who did not like “Sheridan’s Ride,” by T. Buchanan Read (1822-72). The swing and gallop in it take every boy off from his feet. The children never teach this poem to me, because they love to learn it at first sight. It is easily memorised.

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon’s bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down; And there, through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with his utmost speed; Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon’s mouth; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind. And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace fire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of ire. But lo! he is nearing his heart’s desire; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. What was done--what to do? A glance told him both, Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils’ play, He seemed to the whole great army to say: “I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!”

Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, The American soldiers’ Temple of Fame, There with the glorious General’s name Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: “Here is the steed that saved the day, By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away!”

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE SANDPIPER.

“The Sandpiper,” by Celia Thaxter (1836-94), is placed here because a goodly percentage of the children who read it want to learn it.

Across the lonely beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud, black and swift, across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach, One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye; Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

CELIA THAXTER.

LADY CLARE.

Girls always love “Lady Clare” and “The Lord of Burleigh.” They like to think that it is enough to be a splendid woman without title or wealth. They want to be loved, if they are loved at all, for their good hearts and graces of mind. Tennyson (1809-92) makes this point repeatedly through his poems.

It was the time when lilies blow And clouds are highest up in air; Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth’d were they: They too will wed the morrow morn: God’s blessing on the day!

“He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,” said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse; Said: “Who was this that went from thee?” “It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare; “To-morrow he weds with me.”

“O God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse, “That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.”

“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse,” Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild?” “As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse, “I speak the truth: you are my child.

“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.”

“Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,” she said, “if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.”

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, “But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s When you are man and wife.”

“If I’m a beggar born,” she said, “I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.”

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, “But keep the secret all ye can.” She said: “Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man.”

“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse, “The man will cleave unto his right,” “And he shall have it,” the lady replied, “Tho’ I should die to-night.”

“Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas! my child, I sinn’d for thee.” “O mother, mother, mother,” she said, “So strange it seems to me.

“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.”

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand, And follow’d her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: “O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?”

“If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,” she said, “And not the Lady Clare.”

“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, “For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, “Your riddle is hard to read.”

O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes, And told him all her nurse’s tale.

He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn: He turn’d and kiss’d her where she stood: “If you are not the heiress born? And I,” said he, “the next in blood--

“If you are not the heiress born, And I,” said he, “the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare.”

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.

In her ear he whispers gaily, “If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watched thee daily, And I think thou lov’st me well.” She replies, in accents fainter, “There is none I love like thee.” He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she.

He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof; Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father’s roof.

“I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life.”

They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand; Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land.

From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, “Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell.”

So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers.

Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order’d gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state.

All he shows her makes him dearer; Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days.

O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly When beneath his roof they come.

Thus her heart rejoices greatly Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before; Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door.

And they speak in gentle murmur When they answer to his call, While he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall.

And while now she wanders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, “All of this is mine and thine.”

Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin; As it were with same she blushes, And her spirit changed within.

Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove: But he clasp’d her like a lover, And he cheer’d her soul with love.

So she strove against her weakness, Tho’ at times her spirits sank; Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness To all duties of her rank; And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh’d upon her And perplex’d her, night and morn, With the burden of an honour Unto which she was not born.

Faint she grew and ever fainter. As she murmur’d, “Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter Which did win my heart from me!”

So she droop’d and droop’d before him, Fading slowly from his side; Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died.

Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn’d the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.

And he came to look upon her, And he look’d at her and said, “Bring the dress and put it on her That she wore when she was wed.”

Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

HIAWATHA’S CHILDHOOD.

“Hiawatha” needs no commendation. Hundreds of thousands of children in our land know snatches of it It is a child’s poem, every line of it. One summer in Boston more than 50,000 people went to take a peep at the poet’s house. (1807-82.)

By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.

There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, “Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!” Lulled him into slumber, singing, “Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!”

Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of winter; Showed the broad, white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.

At the door, on summer evenings, Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the water, Sounds of music, words of wonder; “Minnie-wawa!” said the pine-trees, “Mudway-aushka!” said the water; Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children. Sang the song Nokomis taught him: “Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!”

Saw the moon rise from the water Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother, and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her; ’Tis her body that you see there.”

Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, “What is that, Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “Tis the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild-flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us.”

When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, “What is that?” he cried, in terror; “What is that,” he said, “Nokomis?” And the good Nokomis answered: “That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other.”

Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in summer, Where they hid themselves in winter, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Chickens.”

Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene’er he met them, Called them “Hiawatha’s Brothers.”

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD.

“The Daffodil” is here out of compliment to a splendid school and a splendid teacher at Poughkeepsie. I found the pupils learning the poem, the teacher having placed a bunch of daffodils in a vase before them. It was a charming lesson. (1770-96.)

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils: Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:-- A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

“John Barleycorn” is a favourite with boys because it pictures a successful struggle. One editor has made a temperance poem of it, mistaking its true intent. The poem is a strong expression of a plow-man’s love for a hardy, food-giving grain which has sprung to life through his efforts. (1759-96.)

There were three kings into the East, Three kings both great and high; And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plow and plowed him down, Put clods upon his head; And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong; His head well arm’d wi’ pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild, And he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Showed he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They took a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee, Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgelled him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn’d him o’er and o’er.

They filled up then a darksome pit With water to the brim, And heaved in poor John Barleycorn, To let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe; And still as signs of life appeared, They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o’er a scorching flame The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all-- He crushed him ’tween two stones.

And they have taken his very heart’s blood, And drunk it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

ROBERT BURNS.

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE.

“A Life on the Ocean Wave,” by Epes Sargent (1813-80), gives the swing and motion of the water of the great ocean. Children remember it almost unconsciously after hearing it read several times.

A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep! Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging shore: Oh! give me the flashing brine, The spray and the tempest’s roar!

Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail! farewell to the land! The gale follows fair abaft. We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free;-- Like the ocean-bird, our home We’ll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We’ll say, Let the storm come down! And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea! A life on the ocean wave!

EPES SARGENT.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

It is customary, every New Year’s eve in America, to ring bells, fire guns, send up rockets, and, in many other ways, to show joy and gratitude that the old year has been so kind, and that the new year is so auspicious. The emphasis in Tennyson’s poem is laid on gratitude for past benefits so easily forgotten rather than upon the possible advantages of the unknown and untried future.

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take ’em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.

He froth’d his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim, And tho’ his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I’ve half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o’er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he’ll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: ’Tis nearly twelve o’clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

“Abou Ben Adhem” has won its way to the popular heart because the “Brotherhood of Man” is the motto of this age. (1784-1859.)

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold.

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold; And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”

“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed; And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

FARM-YARD SONG.

“A Farm-Yard Song” was popular years ago with Burbank, the great reader. How the boys and girls loved it! The author, J.T. Trowbridge (1827-still living), “is a boy-hearted man,” says John Burroughs. The poem is just as popular as it ever was.

Over the hill the farm-boy goes, His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The katydid begins to sing; The early dews are falling;-- Into the stone-heap darts the mink; The swallows skim the river’s brink; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling,-- “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!” Farther, farther over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still,-- “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’!”

Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day; Harness and chain are hung away; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; The straw’s in the stack, the hay in the mow; The cooling dews are falling;-- The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling,-- “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!” While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray,-- “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’!”

Now to her task the milkmaid goes. The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling;-- The new-milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling,-- “So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!” The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, “So! so, boss! so! so!”

To supper at last the farmer goes. The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed. Without, the crickets’ ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling. The housewife’s hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose; But still in sleep the farm-boy goes. Singing, calling,-- “Co’, boss! co’, boss! co’! co’! co’!” And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, “So, boss! so!”

J.T. TROWBRIDGE.

TO A MOUSE,

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785

“To a Mouse” and “To a Mountain Daisy,” by Robert Burns (1759-96), are the ineffable touches of tenderness that illumine the sturdy plowman. The contrast between the strong man and the delicate flower or creature at his mercy makes tenderness in man a vital point in character.

The lines “To a Mouse” seem by report to have been composed while Burns was actually plowing. One of the poet’s first editors wrote: “John Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, and who lived sixty years afterward, had a distinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse. Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after the creature to kill it, but was checked and recalled by his master, who he observed became thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, who treated his servants with the familiarity of fellow-labourers, soon afterward read the poem to Blane.”

Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, Oh, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou needna start awa’ sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, And justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal!

I doubtna, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave ’S a sma’ request: I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, And never miss ’t!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’! And naething now to big a new ane O’ foggage green, And bleak December’s winds ensuin’, Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin’ fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed Out through thy cell.

That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou’s turned out for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea’e us naught but grief and pain, For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e’e On prospects drear! And forward, though I canna see, I guess and fear.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonny gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, The bonny lark, companion meet, Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet, Wi’ speckled breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east!

Cauld blew the bitter biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery’s brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!

Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, That fate is thine--no distant date; Stern Ruin’s plowshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight Shall be thy doom.

ROBERT BURNS.

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.

“Barbara Frietchie” will be beloved of all times because she was an old woman (not necessarily an old lady) _worthy of her years_. Old age is honourable if it carries a head that has a halo. (1807-92.)

Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Roundabout them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,

Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,

Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down.

In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”--the dust-brown ranks stood fast. “Fire!”--out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host.

Even its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honour to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.