Part 4
If thou wilt shut thy drowsy eyes, My mulberry one, my golden sun! The rose shall sing thee lullabies, My pretty cosset lambkin! And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee-- A silver boat in a golden sea, My velvet love, my nestling dove, My own pomegranate blossom!
The stork shall guard thee passing well All night, my sweet! my dimple-feet! And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, My gentle rain-of-springtime! And for thy slumbrous play shall twine The diamond stars with an emerald vine To trail in the waves of ruby wine, My myrtle bloom, my heart’s perfume, My little chirping sparrow!
And when the morn wakes up to see My apple bright, my soul’s delight! The partridge shall come calling thee, My jar of milk-and-honey! Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, You wakeful one, you naughty son, You cooing little turtle!
CHRISTMAS TREASURES
I count my treasures o’er with care,-- The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair.
Long years ago this holy time, My little one--my all to me-- Sat robed in white upon my knee, And heard the merry Christmas chime.
“Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright,-- What treasure for my boy?” I said.
And then he named this little toy, While in his round and mournful eyes There came a look of sweet surprise, That spake his quiet, trustful joy.
And as he lisped his evening prayer He asked the boon with childish grace; Then, toddling to the chimney-place, He hung this little stocking there.
That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With singing to our lowly home And kiss my darling as he slept.
They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn, with rapturous face, He toddled to the chimney-place, And found this little treasure there.
They came again one Christmas-tide,-- That angel host, so fair and white; And, singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side.
A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A watching for my baby boy!
But if again that angel train And golden-head come back for me, To bear me to Eternity, My watching will not be in vain.
OH, LITTLE CHILD
Hush, little one, and fold your hands-- The sun hath set, the moon is high; The sea is singing to the sands, And wakeful posies are beguiled By many a fairy lullaby-- Hush, little child--my little child!
Dream, little one, and in your dreams Float upward from this lowly place-- Float out on mellow, misty streams To lands where bideth Mary mild, And let her kiss thy little face, You little child--my little child!
Sleep, little one, and take thy rest-- With angels bending over thee, Sleep sweetly on that Father’s breast Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled-- But stay not there--come back to me, Oh, little child--_my_ little child!
GANDERFEATHER’S GIFT
I was just a little thing When a fairy came and kissed me; Floating in upon the light Of a haunted summer night, Lo, the fairies came to sing Pretty slumber songs and bring Certain boons that else had missed me. From a dream I turned to see What those strangers brought for me, When that fairy up and kissed me-- Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me!
Simmerdew was there, but she Did not like me altogether; Daisybright and Turtledove, Pilfercurds and Honeylove, Thistleblow and Amberglee On that gleaming, ghostly sea Floated from the misty heather, And around my trundle-bed Frisked, and looked, and whispering said-- Solemnlike and all together: “_You_ shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!”
Ganderfeather kissed me then-- Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! No attenuate sprite was he, --But as buxom as could be;-- Kissed me twice, and once again, And the others shouted when On my cheek uprose a berry Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, But the kiss-mark of that chap Ganderfeather, passing merry-- Humorsome, but kindly, very!
I was just a tiny thing When the prankish Ganderfeather Brought this curious gift to me With his fairy kisses three; Yet with honest pride I sing That same gift he chose to bring Out of yonder haunted heather. Other charms and friendships fly-- Constant friends this mole and I, Who have been so long together. Thank you, little Ganderfeather!
BAMBINO
Bambino in his cradle slept; And by his side his grandam grim Bent down and smiled upon the child, And sung this lullaby to him,-- This “ninna and anninia”:
“When thou art older, thou shalt mind To traverse countries far and wide, And thou shalt go where roses blow And balmy waters singing glide-- So ninna and anninia!
“And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, A famous jacket edged in red, And, more than that, a peakèd hat, All decked in gold, upon thy head-- Ah! ninna and anninia!
“Then shalt thou carry gun and knife, Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, A mighty bandit thou shalt be-- So ninna and anninia!
“No woman yet of our proud race Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; The brazen churl that eyed a girl Bought her the ring or paid his head-- So ninna and anninia!
“But once came spies (I know the thieves!) And brought disaster to our race; God heard us when our fifteen men Were hanged within the market-place-- But ninna and anninia!
“Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- Right worthy fellows all, and strong; Live thou and be for them and me Avenger of that deadly wrong-- So ninna and anninia!”
LITTLE HOMER’S SLATE
After dear old grandma died, Hunting through an oaken chest In the attic, we espied What repaid our childish quest; ’Twas a homely little slate, Seemingly of ancient date.
On its quaint and battered face Was the picture of a cart, Drawn with all that awkward grace Which betokens childish art; But what meant this legend, pray: “Homer drew this yesterday”?
Mother recollected then What the years were fain to hide-- She was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died; Forty years, so mother said, Little Homer had been dead.
This one secret through those years Grandma kept from all apart, Hallowed by her lonely tears And the breaking of her heart; While each year that sped away Seemed to her but yesterday.
So the homely little slate Grandma’s baby’s fingers pressed, To a memory consecrate, Lieth in the oaken chest, Where, unwilling we should know, Grandma put it, years ago.
THE ROCK-A-BY LADY
The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street Comes stealing; comes creeping; The poppies they hang from her head to her feet, And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet-- She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet, When she findeth you sleeping!
There is one little dream of a beautiful drum-- “Rub-a-dub!” it goeth; There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum, And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum, And a trumpet that bloweth!
And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams With laughter and singing; And boats go a-floating on silvery streams, And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams, And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams, The fairies go winging!
Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet? They’ll come to you sleeping; So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet, For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street, With poppies that hang from her head to her feet, Comes stealing; comes creeping.
“BOOH!”
On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap, And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse’s lap, In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face, And cautiously and quietly I move about the place; Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view, And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say “Booh!”
Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared, And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared; And then his under lip came out and farther out it came, Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a “cruel shame”-- But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do But laugh and kick his little heels when I say “Booh!”
He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then In shrill, despotic treble bids me “do it all aden!” And I--of course I do it; for, as his progenitor, It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for! And it is, oh, such fun! and I am sure that we shall rue The time when we are both too old to play the game of “Booh!”
GARDEN AND CRADLE
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden, Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play; The posies they are good to him, And bow them as they should to him, As fareth he upon his kingly way; And birdlings of the wood to him Make music, gentle music, all the day, When our babe he goeth walking in his garden.
When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle, Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down; The little stars are kind to him, The moon she hath a mind to him And layeth on his head a golden crown; And singeth then the wind to him A song, the gentle song of Bethlem-town, When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle.
THE NIGHT WIND
Have you ever heard the wind go “Yooooo”? ’Tis a pitiful sound to hear! It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear. ’Tis the voice of the night that broods outside When folk should be asleep, And many and many’s the time I’ve cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: “Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?” And the night would say in its ghostly way: “Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!”
My mother told me long ago (When I was a little tad) That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad; And then, when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I’d think of what my mother’d said, And wonder what boy she meant! And “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask Of the wind that hoarsely blew, And the voice would say in its meaningful way “Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!”
That this was true I must allow-- You’ll not believe it, though! Yes, though I’m quite a model now, I was not always so. And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose, when you’ve been bad some day And up to bed are sent away From mother and the rest-- Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?” And then you’ll hear what’s true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: “Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!”
KISSING TIME
’Tis when the lark goes soaring And the bee is at the bud, When lightly dancing zephyrs Sing over field and flood; When all sweet things in nature Seem joyfully achime-- ’Tis then I wake my darling, For it is kissing time!
Go, pretty lark, a-soaring, And suck your sweets, O bee; Sing, O ye winds of summer, Your songs to mine and me; For with your song and rapture Cometh the moment when It’s half-past kissing time And time to kiss again!
So--so the days go fleeting Like golden fancies free, And every day that cometh Is full of sweets for me; And sweetest are those moments My darling comes to climb Into my lap to mind me That it is kissing time.
Sometimes, maybe, he wanders A heedless, aimless way-- Sometimes, maybe, he loiters In pretty, prattling play; But presently bethinks him And hastens to me then, For it’s half-past kissing time And time to kiss again!
JEST ’FORE CHRISTMAS
Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! Mighty glad I ain’t a girl--ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an’ things that’s worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an’ go swimmin’ in the lake-- Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! ’Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain’t no flies on me, But jest ’fore Christmas I’m as good as I kin be!
Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn’t know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an’ when us kids goes out to slide, ’Long comes the grocery cart, an’ we all hook a ride! But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an’ cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an’ larrups up his hoss, An’ then I laff an’ holler, “Oh, ye never teched _me_!” But jest ’fore Christmas I’m as good as I kin be!
Gran’ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, I’ll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon’s Isle, Where every prospeck pleases, an’ only man is vile! But gran’ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she’d know That Buff’lo Bill an’ cow-boys is good enough for me! _Excep’_ jest ’fore Christmas, when I’m good as I kin be!
And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an’ still, His eyes they seem a-sayin’: “What’s the matter, little Bill?” The old cat sneaks down off her perch an’ wonders what’s become Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! But I am so perlite an’ ’tend so earnestly to biz, That mother says to father: “How improved our Willie is!” But father, havin’ been a boy hisself, suspicions me When, jest ’fore Christmas, I’m as good as I kin be!
For Christmas, with its lots an’ lots of candies, cakes, an’ toys, Was made, they say, for proper kids, an’ not for naughty boys; So wash yer face an’ bresh yer hair, an’ mind yer p’s and q’s, An’ don’t bust out yer pantaloons, and don’t wear out yer shoes; Say “Yessum” to the ladies, an’ “Yessur” to the men, An’ when they’s company, don’t pass yer plate for pie again; But, thinkin’ of the things yer ’d like to see upon that tree, Jest ’fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!
BEARD AND BABY
I say, as one who never feared The wrath of a subscriber’s bullet, I pity him who has a beard But has no little girl to pull it!
When wife and I have finished tea, Our baby woos me with her prattle, And, perching proudly on my knee, She gives my petted whiskers battle.
With both her hands she tugs away, While scolding at me kind o’ spiteful; You’ll not believe me when I say I find the torture quite delightful!
No other would presume, I ween, To trifle with this hirsute wonder, Else would I rise in vengeful mien And rend his vandal frame asunder!
But when _her_ baby fingers pull This glossy, sleek, and silky treasure, My cup of happiness is full-- I fairly glow with pride and pleasure!
And, sweeter still, through all the day I seem to hear her winsome prattle-- I seem to feel her hands at play, As though they gave me sportive battle.
Yes, heavenly music seems to steal Where thought of her forever lingers, And round my heart I always feel The twining of her dimpled fingers!
THE DINKEY-BIRD
In an ocean, ’way out yonder (As all sapient people know), Is the land of Wonder-Wander, Whither children love to go; It’s their playing, romping, swinging, That give great joy to me While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing In the amfalula tree!
There the gum-drops grow like cherries, And taffy’s thick as peas-- Caramels you pick like berries When, and where, and how you please; Big red sugar-plums are clinging To the cliffs beside that sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the amfalula tree.
So when children shout and scamper And make merry all the day, When there’s naught to put a damper To the ardor of their play; When I hear their laughter ringing, Then I’m sure as sure can be That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the amfalula tree.
For the Dinkey-Bird’s bravuras And staccatos are so sweet-- His roulades, appoggiaturas, And robustos so complete, That the youth of every nation-- Be they near or far away-- Have especial delectation In that gladsome roundelay.
Their eyes grow bright and brighter Their lungs begin to crow, Their hearts get light and lighter, And their cheeks are all aglow; For an echo cometh bringing The news to all and me, That the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the amfalula tree.
I’m sure you like to go there To see your feathered friend-- And so many goodies grow there You would like to comprehend! _Speed, little dreams, your winging To that land across the sea Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing In the amfalula tree!_
THE DRUM
I’m a beautiful red, red drum, And I train with the soldier boys; As up the street we come, Wonderful is our noise! There’s Tom, and Jim, and Phil, And Dick, and Nat, and Fred, While Widow Cutler’s Bill And I march on ahead, With a r-r-rat-tat-tat And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum-- Oh, there’s bushels of fun in that For boys with a little red drum!
The Injuns came last night While the soldiers were abed, And they gobbled a Chinese kite And off to the woods they fled! The woods are the cherry-trees Down in the orchard lot, And the soldiers are marching to seize The booty the Injuns got. With tum-titty-um-tum-tum, And r-r-rat-tat-tat, When soldiers marching come Injuns had better scat!
Step up there, little Fred, And, Charley, have a mind! Jim is as far ahead As you two are behind! Ready with gun and sword Your valorous work to do-- Yonder the Injun horde Are lying in wait for you. And their hearts go pitapat When they hear the soldiers come With a r-r-rat-tat-tat And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum!
Course it’s all in play! The skulking Injun crew That hustled the kite away Are little white boys, like you! But “honest” or “just in fun,” It is all the same to me; And, when the battle is won, Home once again march we With a r-r-rat-tat-tat And tum-titty-um-tum-tum; And there’s glory enough in that For the boys with their little red drum!
THE DEAD BABE
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, In agony I knelt and said: “O God! what have I done, Or in what wise offended Thee, That Thou shouldst take away from me My little son?
“Upon the thousand useless lives, Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives, Thy wrath were better spent! Why shouldst Thou take my little son-- Why shouldst Thou vent Thy wrath upon This innocent?”
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, Before mine eyes the vision spread Of things that _might_ have been: Licentious riot, cruel strife, Forgotten prayers, a wasted life Dark red with sin!
Then, with sweet music in the air, I saw another vision there: A Shepherd in whose keep A little lamb--my little child! Of worldly wisdom undefiled, Lay fast asleep!
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, In those two messages I read A wisdom manifest; And though my arms be childless now, I am content--to Him I bow Who knoweth best.
THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD
It’s when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks, That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes; Then it’s sleep no more for baby, and it’s sleep no more for me, For, when he wants his dinner, why it’s dinner it must be! And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado. While gran’ma laughs, And gran’pa laughs, And wife, she laughs, And I--well, _I_ laugh, _too_!
You’d think, to see us carrying on about that little tad, That, like as not, that baby was the first we’d ever had; But, sakes alive! he isn’t, yet we people make a fuss As if the only baby in the world had come to _us_! And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do, Gran’ma, she laughs, Gran’pa, he laughs, Wife, she laughs, And _I_, of course, laugh, too!
But once--a likely spell ago--when that poor little chick From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick, You wouldn’t know us people as the same that went about A-feelin’ good all over, just to hear him crow and shout; And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he’d pull him through, Old gran’ma cried, And gran’pa cried, And wife, she cried, And I--yes, _I_ cried, _too_!
It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place, With his everlastin’ crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face; The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere, And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care! No matter _what_ our trouble is, when _he_ begins to _coo_, Old gran’ma laughs, And gran’pa laughs, Wife, she laughs, And I--you bet, _I_ laugh, _too_!
SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO!
So, so, rock-a-by so! Off to the garden where dreamikins grow; And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes, And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies In the beautiful garden way up in the skies Which you seek. Now mind these three kisses wherever you go-- So, so, rock-a-by so!
There’s one little fumfay who lives there, I know, For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow; I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes, I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek. And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies Which you seek. Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe-- So, so, rock-a-by so!