Part 2

While each patriot’s hope stays the fullness of sorrow, While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low, He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow Like an angel come back from the dear long ago. Ah, what to him now is a nation’s emotion, And what for our love or our grief careth he? A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean, And Nellie is coming from over the sea!

O daughter--my daughter! when Death stands before me And beckons me off to that far misty shore, Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o’er me, And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore. In the grace of your love all my anguish abating, I’ll bear myself bravely and proudly as he, And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waiting When Nellie was coming from over the sea.

NORSE LULLABY

The sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night; And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep”; He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: “Sleep, little one, sleep.”

On yonder mountain-side a vine Clings at the foot of a mother pine; The tree bends over the trembling thing, And only the vine can hear her sing: “Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep-- What shall you fear when I am here? Sleep, little one, sleep.”

The king may sing in his bitter flight, The tree may croon to the vine to-night, But the little snowflake at my breast Liketh the song _I_ sing the best-- Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; Weary thou art, a-next my heart Sleep, little one, sleep.

GRANDMA’S PRAYER

I pray that, risen from the dead, I may in glory stand-- A crown, perhaps, upon my head, But a needle in my hand.

I’ve never learned to sing or play, So let no harp be mine; From birth unto my dying day, Plain sewing’s been my line.

Therefore, accustomed to the end To plying useful stitches, I’ll be content if asked to mend The little angels’ breeches.

SOME TIME

Last night, my darling, as you slept, I thought I heard you sigh, And to your little crib I crept, And watched a space thereby; Then, bending down, I kissed your brow-- For, oh! I love you so-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know.

Some time, when, in a darkened place Where others come to weep, Your eyes shall see a weary face Calm in eternal sleep; The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, The patient smile may show-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know.

Look backward, then, into the years, And see me here to-night-- See, O my darling! how my tears Are falling as I write; And feel once more upon your brow The kiss of long ago-- You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know.

THE FIRE-HANGBIRD’S NEST

As I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day, I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way; I say and mean “with wonder,” for now it seems to me That elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be! The old fire-hangbird’s built her nest therein for many springs-- High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings, But not so high as when a little boy I did my best To scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird’s nest!

The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prize That dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise, And once, when Deacon Turner’s boy had almost grasped the limb, He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him! Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm-- But what of that? The danger gave the sport a special charm! The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the rest Ran every risk to carry off the old fire-hang-bird’s nest!

I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through, That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue, And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when she Discovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree; How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs, She told me ’twould be wicked to destroy a hangbird’s eggs, And then she’d call on father and on gran’pa to attest That they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird’s nest!

Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there, While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair, The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go, As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below! And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chide The callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned inside: “Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest-- I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird’s nest!”

For many, very many years that mother-bird has come To rear her pretty little brood within that cozy home. She is the selfsame bird of old--I’m certain it is she-- Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me. Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name (And in parenthesis I’ll say her nest is still the same); Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breast To climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird’s nest!

I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree, And, if the elm’s as tall and sturdy as it _used_ to be, I’m sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow, For boys aren’t what they used to be a forty years ago! The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and I Beheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high; He writes that in the city where he’s living ’way out West His little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird’s nest!

Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be-- I wish they’d come and live awhile in this old house with me! They’d have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to know When brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago. So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men, They could recall with proper pride their country life again; And of those recollections of their youth I’m sure the best Would be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird’s nest!

BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not-- These three bloomed in a garden spot; And once, all merry with song and play, A little one heard three voices say: “Shine and shadow, summer and spring, O thou child with the tangled hair And laughing eyes! we three shall bring Each an offering passing fair.” The little one did not understand, But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.

Buttercup gamboled all day long, Sharing the little one’s mirth and song; Then, stealing along on misty gleams, Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams. Playing and dreaming--and that was all Till once a sleeper would not awake; Kissing the little face under the pall, We thought of the words the third flower spake; And we found betimes in a hallowed spot The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.

Buttercup shareth the joy of day, Glinting with gold the hours of play; Bringeth the poppy sweet repose, When the hands would fold and the eyes would close; And after it all--the play and the sleep Of a little life--what cometh then? To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep A new flower bringeth God’s peace again. Each one serveth its tender lot-- Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe-- Sailed on a river of crystal light, Into a sea of dew. “Where are you going, and what do you wish?” The old moon asked the three. “We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!” Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew.

The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea-- “Now cast your nets wherever you wish-- Never afeard are we”; So cried the stars to the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam-- Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; ’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed As if it could not be, And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea-- But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one’s trundle-bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE

Out on the mountain over the town, All night long, all night long, The trolls go up and the trolls go down, Bearing their packs and singing a song; And this is the song the hill-folk croon, As they trudge in the light of the misty moon-- This is ever their dolorous tune: “Gold, gold! ever more gold-- Bright red gold for dearie!”

Deep in the hill a father delves All night long, all night long; None but the peering, furtive elves Sees his toil and hears his song; Merrily ever the cavern rings As merrily ever his pick he swings, And merrily ever this song he sings: “Gold, gold! ever more gold-- Bright red gold for dearie!”

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed All night long, all night long, Happy to smooth thy curly head, To hold thy hand and to sing her song: ’Tis not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old, Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold, And the burthen it beareth is not of gold, But it’s “Love, love! nothing but love Mother’s love for dearie!”

THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME

Dearest, how hard it is to say That all is for the best, Since, sometimes, in a grievous way God’s will is manifest.

See with what hearty, noisy glee Our little ones to-night Dance round and round our Christmas tree With pretty toys bedight.

Dearest, one voice they may not hear, One face they may not see-- Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer Cometh to you and me?

Cometh before our misty eyes That other little face, And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, That love in the old embrace.

Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night, Bringing his peace to men, And he bringeth to you and to me the light Of the old, old years again.

Bringeth the peace of long ago, When a wee one clasped your knee And lisped of the morrow--dear one, you know-- And here come back is he!

Dearest, ’tis sometimes hard to say That all is for the best, For, often, in a grievous way God’s will is manifest.

But in the grace of this holy night That bringeth us back our child, Let us see that the ways of God are right, And so be reconciled.

TO A LITTLE BROOK

You’re not so big as you were then, O little brook!-- I mean those hazy summers when We boys roamed, full of awe, beside Your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide, And wondered if it could be true That there were bigger brooks than you O mighty brook, O peerless brook!

All up and down this reedy place Where lives the brook, We angled for the furtive dace; The redwing-blackbird did his best To make us think he’d built his nest Hard by the stream, when, like as not, He’d hung it in a secret spot Far from the brook, the telltale brook!

And often, when the noontime heat Parboiled the brook, We’d draw our boots and swing our feet Upon the waves that, in their play, Would tag us last and scoot away; And mother never seemed to know What burnt our legs and chapped them so-- But father guessed it was the brook!

And Fido--how he loved to swim The cooling brook, Whenever we’d throw sticks for him; And how we boys _did_ wish that we Could only swim as good as he-- Why, Daniel Webster never was Recipient of such great applause As Fido, battling with the brook!

But once--O most unhappy day For you, my brook!-- Came Cousin Sam along that way; And, having lived a spell out West, Where creeks aren’t counted much at best, He neither waded, swam, nor leapt, But, with superb indifference, _stept_ Across that brook--our mighty brook!

Why do you scamper on your way, You little brook, When I come back to you to-day? Is it because you flee the grass That lunges at you as you pass, As if, in playful mood, it would Tickle the truant if it could, You chuckling brook--you saucy brook?

Or is it you no longer know-- You fickle brook-- The honest friend of long ago? The years that kept us twain apart Have changed my face, but not my heart-- Many and sore those years, and yet I fancied you could not forget That happy time, my playmate brook!

Oh, sing again in artless glee, My little brook, The song you used to sing for me-- The song that’s lingered in my ears So soothingly these many years; My grief shall be forgotten when I hear your tranquil voice again And that sweet song, dear little brook!

CROODLIN’ DOO

Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin’ doo? Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin’ on the lea? Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me-- Got a lump o’ sugar an’ a posie for you, Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!

Why! here you are, my little croodlin’ doo! Looked in er cradle, but didn’t find you there-- Looked f’r my wee, wee croodlin’ doo ever’where; Be’n kind lonesome all er day withouten you-- Where you be’n, my teeny, wee, wee croodlin’ doo?

Now you go balow, my little croodlin’ doo; Now you go rockaby ever so far,-- Rockaby, rockaby up to the star That’s winkin’ an’ blinkin’ an’ singin’ to you, As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin’ doo!

LITTLE MISTRESS SANS-MERCI

Little Mistress Sans-Merci Fareth world-wide, fancy free: Trotteth cooing to and fro, And her cooing is command-- Never ruled there yet, I trow, Mightier despot in the land. And my heart it lieth where Mistress Sans-Merci doth fare.

Little Mistress Sans-Merci-- She hath made a slave of me! “Go,” she biddeth, and I go-- “Come,” and I am fain to come-- Never mercy doth she show, Be she wroth or frolicsome, Yet am I content to be Slave to Mistress Sans-Merci!

Little Mistress Sans-Merci Hath become so dear to me That I count as passing sweet All the pain her moods impart, And I bless the little feet That go trampling on my heart: Ah, how lonely life would be But for little Sans-Merci!

Little Mistress Sans-Merci, Cuddle close this night to me, And the heart, which all day long Ruthless thou hast trod upon, Shall outpour a soothing song For its best belovéd one-- All its tenderness for thee, Little Mistress Sans-Merci!

LONG AGO

I once knew all the birds that came And nested in our orchard trees, For every flower I had a name-- My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees; I knew where thrived in yonder glen What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe-- Oh, I was very learned then, But that was very long ago.

I knew the spot upon the hill Where checkerberries could be found, I knew the rushes near the mill Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound! I knew the wood--the very tree Where lived the poaching, saucy crow, And all the woods and crows knew me-- But that was very long ago.

And pining for the joys of youth, I tread the old familiar spot Only to learn this solemn truth: I have forgotten, am forgot. Yet here’s this youngster at my knee Knows all the things I used to know; To think I once was wise as he!-- But that was very long ago.

I know it’s folly to complain Of whatsoe’er the fates decree, Yet, were not wishes all in vain, I tell you what my wish should be: I’d wish to be a boy again, Back with the friends I used to know. For I was, oh, so happy then-- But that was very long ago!

IN THE FIRELIGHT

The fire upon the hearth is low, And there is stillness everywhere, And, like wing’d spirits, here and there The firelight shadows fluttering go. And as the shadows round me creep, A childish treble breaks the gloom, And softly from a further room Comes: “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

And, somehow, with that little pray’r And that sweet treble in my ears, My thought goes back to distant years, And lingers with a dear one there; And as I hear my child’s amen, My mother’s faith comes back to me-- Crouched at her side I seem to be, And mother holds my hands again.

Oh, for an hour in that dear place-- Oh, for the peace of that dear time-- Oh, for that childish trust sublime-- Oh, for a glimpse of mother’s face! Yet, as the shadows round me creep, I do not seem to be alone-- Sweet magic of that treble tone And “Now I lay me down to sleep!”

COBBLER AND STORK

_Cobbler._

Stork, I am justly wroth, For thou hast wronged me sore; The ash roof-tree that shelters thee Shall shelter thee no more!

_Stork._

Full fifty years I’ve dwelt Upon this honest tree, And long ago (as people know!) I brought thy father thee. What hail hath chilled thy heart, That thou shouldst bid me go? Speak out, I pray--then I’ll away, Since thou commandest so.

_Cobbler._

Thou tellest of the time When, wheeling from the west, This hut thou sought’st and one thou brought’st Unto a mother’s breast. _I_ was the wretched child Was fetched that dismal morn-- ’Twere better die than be (as I) To life of misery born! And hadst thou borne me on Still farther up the town, A king I’d be of high degree, And wear a golden crown! For yonder lives the prince Was brought that selfsame day: How happy he, while--look at me! I toil my life away! And see my little boy-- To what estate he’s born! Why, when I die no hoard leave I But poverty and scorn. And _thou_ hast done it all-- I might have been a king And ruled in state, but for thy hate, Thou base, perfidious thing!

_Stork._

Since, cobbler, thou dost speak Of one thou lovest well, Hear of that king what grievous thing This very morn befell. Whilst round thy homely bench Thy well-belovéd played, In yonder hall beneath a pall A little one was laid; Thy well-belovéd’s face Was rosy with delight, But ’neath that pall in yonder hall The little face is white; Whilst by a merry voice Thy soul is filled with cheer, Another weeps for one that sleeps All mute and cold anear; One father hath his hope, And one is childless now; _He_ wears a crown and rules a town-- Only a cobbler _thou_! Wouldst thou exchange thy lot At price of such a woe? I’ll nest no more above thy door, But, as thou bidst me, go.

_Cobbler._

Nay, stork! thou shalt remain-- I mean not what I said; Good neighbors we must always be, So make thy home o’erhead. I would not change my bench For any monarch’s throne, Nor sacrifice at any price My darling and my own! Stork! on my roof-tree bide, That, seeing thee anear, I’ll thankful be God sent by thee Me and my darling here!

“LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY”

Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing, I heard a moder to her dearie singing “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping, And on his moder’s breast did fall a-sleeping To “lolly, lolly, lollyby.”

Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging, But fairer yet the moder’s gentle singing-- “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling In dreems while him hys moder ben beguiling With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.”

Then to my harte saies I: “Oh, that thy beating Colde be assuaged by some sweete voice repeating ‘Lollyby, lolly, lollyby’; That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, To ‘lolly, lolly, lollyby’!”

Some time--mayhap when curfew bells are ringing-- A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing “Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; Some time, mayhap, with Chryst’s love round me streaming, I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming, With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.”

LIZZIE AND THE BABY

I wonder ef all wimmin air Like Lizzie is when we go out To theaters an’ concerts where Is things the papers talk about. Do other wimmin fret an’ stew Like they wuz bein’ crucified-- Frettin’ a show or concert through, With wonderin’ ef the baby cried?

Now Lizzie knows that gran’ma’s there To see that everything is right, Yet Lizzie thinks that gran’ma’s care Ain’t good enuff f’r baby, quite; Yet what am I to answer when She kind uv fidgets at my side, An’ asks me every now and then: “I wonder if the baby cried?”

Seems like she seen two little eyes A-pinin’ f’r their mother’s smile-- Seems like she heern the pleadin’ cries Uv one she thinks uv all the while; An’ so she’s sorry that she come, An’ though she allus tries to hide The truth, she’d ruther stay to hum Than wonder ef the baby cried.

Yes, wimmin folks is all alike-- By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; There never wuz a little tyke, But that his mother loved him best. And nex’ to bein’ what I be-- The husband uv my gentle bride-- I’d wisht I wuz that croodlin’ wee, With Lizzie wonderin’ ef I cried.

AT THE DOOR

I thought myself, indeed, secure So fast the door, so firm the lock; But, lo! he toddling comes to lure My parent ear with timorous knock.

My heart were stone could it withstand The sweetness of my baby’s plea,-- That timorous, baby knocking and “Please let me in,--it’s only me.”

I threw aside the unfinished book, Regardless of its tempting charms, And, opening wide the door, I took My laughing darling in my arms.

Who knows but in Eternity, I, like a truant child, shall wait The glories of a life to be, Beyond the Heavenly Father’s gate?