 8 And I made a rural pen. And I stained the water clear. And I wrote my happy songs. Every child may joy to hear, William Blake. 9 The Fairy Folk. Come cuddle close in Daddy's coat, beside the fire so bright, and hear about the fairy folk that wander in the night, for when the stars are shining clear and all the world is still, they float across the silver moon from hill to cloudy hill, their caps of red, their cloaks of green are hung with silver bells, and when they're shaken with the wind their merry ringing swells, and riding on the crimson moth with black spots on his wings, they guide them down the purple sky with golden bridal rings. They love to visit girls and boys to see how sweet they sleep, to stand beside their cozy cots and at their faces peep, for in the whole of fairyland they have no finer sight, than little children sleeping sound with faces rosy bright. On tiptoe crowding round their heads when bright the moonlight beams, they whisper little tender words that fill their minds with dreams, and when they see a sunny smile with lightest fingertips, they lay a hundred kisses sweet upon the ruddy lips, and then the little spotted moths spread out their crimson wings, and bear away the fairy crowd with shaking bridal rings. Comperneys hide in daddy's coat, beside the fire so bright, perhaps the little fairy folk will visit you to-night, Robert Byrd. A fairy in armor. He put his acorn helmet on. It was plumed of the silk of the thistle down. The coarsely plate that guarded his breast was once the wild bee's golden vest. His cloak of a thousand mingle dyes was formed of the wings of butterflies. His shield was the shell of a ladybug green, studs a gold on a ground of green, and the quivering lance which he brandished bright was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. Swift he bestrode his firefly steed, he bared his blade of the bent grass blue. He drove his spurs of the cockle seed, and away like a glance of thought he flew, to skim the heavens and follow far the fiery trail of the rocket star Joseph Rodham Drake. The last voyage of the fairies. Down the bright stream the fairies float. A water lily is their boat. Long rushes they for paddles take, their mainsail of a bat's wing make. The tackle is of cobwebs neat, with glow-worm lanterns all complete. So down the broadening stream they float, with puck as pilot of the boat. The queen on speckled moth-wing's lies, and this at times her languid eyes, to mark the green and mossy spots, where bloom the blue forgot-me-naughts, o' baren on his rosebud throne, claims the fair valley, as his own, and elves and fairies with a shout, which may be heard a yard about. Hail him as Elfland's mighty king, and hazelnut's in homage bring, and bend the unreluctant need, and wave their wands in loyalty. Down the broad stream the fairies float, and unseen power impals their boat. The banks fly past, each wooded seen, the elder cops, the poplars green, and soon they feel the briny breeze, with salt and savor of the seas. Still down the stream the fairies float, and unseen power impals their boat, until they mark the rushing tide within the estuary wide. And now they're tossing on the sea, where waves roll high, and winds blow free. A mortal vision, nevermore, shall see the fairies on the shore, or watch upon a summer night their mazy dances of delight. Far, far away upon the sea, the waves roll high, the breeze blows free. The queen on speckled moth-wing's lies, slow gazing with a strange surprise, where swim the sea-nymphs on the tide, or on the backs of dolphin's ride. The king upon his nose-bud-throne, pails as he hears the waters moan. The elves have ceased their sport of play, hushed by their slowly sinking day. And still afar, afar they float, the fairies in their fragile boat, further and further from the shore, and lost to mortals, evermore. W. H. Davenport Adams A new fern A fairy has found a new fern, a lovely surprise of the may. She stamps her wee foot, looks uncommonly stern, and keeps other fairies at bay. She watches it flourish and grow. What exquisite pleasure is hers. She kisses it, strokes it, and fondles it so. I almost believe that she purrs. Of all the most beautiful things, none brighter than this I discern. To be a young fairy with glittering wings, and then to discover a fern. A. The child and the fairies The woods are full of fairies. The trees are alive. The river overflows with them. See how they dip and dive. What funny little fellows. What dainty little deers. They dance and leap, and prance and peep, and utter fairy cheers. I'd like to tame a fairy, to keep it on a shelf, to see it wash its little face, and dress its little self. I teach it pretty manners. It always should say please. And then you know I'd make it so, and curtsy with its knees. A. The little elf I met a little elf man once, down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small, and why he didn't grow. He slightly frowned, and with his eye he looked me through and through. I'm quite as big for me, he said. As you are big for you, John Kendrick bangs. One, two, three. It was an old, old, old, old lady, and a boy that was half past three, and the way that they played together was beautiful to see. She couldn't go romping and jumping, and the boy no more could he. For he was a thin little fellow, with a thin little twisted knee. They sat in the yellow sunlight, out under the maple tree, and the game that they played I'll tell you, just as it was told to me. It was hide and go seek they were playing, though you'd never have known it to be, with an old, old, old, old lady, and a boy with a twisted knee. The boy would bend his face down, on his little south-right knee, and he guessed where she was hiding, in guesses one, two, three. You are in the china closet, he would cry and laugh with glee. It wasn't the china closet, but he still had two and three. You are up in Papa's big bedroom, in the chest, with the queer old key, and she said you are warm and warmer, but you are not quite right, said she. It can't be the little cupboard where Mama's things used to be, so it must be in the clothes-press, Grandma, and he found her with his three. Then she covered her face with her fingers, that were wrinkled and white and wee, and she guessed where the boy was hiding, with a one and a two and a three, and they never had stirred from their places, right under the maple tree, this old, old, old, old lady, and the boy with the lame little knee, this dear, dear, dear old lady, and the boy who was half past three, Henry C. Bonner. What may happen to a thimble? Come about the meadow, hunt here and there, where's mother's thimble? Can you tell where? Jane saw her wearing it, fan saw it fall, Ned isn't sure that she dropped it at all, has almost carried it down to her whole, home full of twilight, shade small soul. Can she be darning there? Er, the light fails, small ragged stockings, tiny torn tails. Did a finch fly with it into the hedge, or a reed warbler down in the sedge? Are they carousing there, all the night through, such a great goblet, brimful of dew? Have beetles crept with it, where oak roots hide? There have they settled it, down on its side. Neat little kennel, so cozy and dark, has one crept into it, trying to bark. Have the ants covered it, with straw and sand, roomy bell tent for them, so tall and grand, where the red soldier ants lie lull and lean, while the black steadily build for their queen. Has a huge dragonfly, borne it, how cool, to his snug dressing room by the clear pool. There he will try it on, for a new hat. Nobody watching, but one water rat. Did the flowers fight for it? While undecried, one selfish daisy slipped it aside. Now has she plunged in it, close to her feet. Nice private water tank for summer heat. Did spider snatch at it, wanting to look at the bright pebbles which lie in the brook. Now are they using it? Nobody knows. Safe little diving bell, shutting so close. Hunt for it, hope for it, all through the moss. Dip for it, grope for it, tis such a loss. Jane finds a drop of dew, fan finds a stone. I find the thimble, which is mother's own. Run with it, fly with it, don't let it fall. All did their best for it, mother, thanks all. Just as we give it her, think what a shame. Ned says he's sure that it isn't the same. B. Discontent. Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloom together, save one who tried to hide herself, and droop that pleasant weather. A robin who is flown too high, and felt a little daisy, was resting near a butter cup who wished she were a daisy. For daisies grew so trig and tall, she always had a passion, for wearing frills around her neck, in just the daisy's fashion, and butter cups must always be the same old tiresome color, while daisies dress in golden white, although their gold is duller. Dear robin, said the sad young flower, perhaps you'd not mind trying to find a nice white frill for me some day when you are flying. You silly thing, the robin said. I think you must be crazy. I'd rather be my honest self than any made up daisy. You're nicer in your own bright gown. The little children love you. Be the best butter cup you can, and think no flower above you. Though swallows leave me out of sight, we'd better keep our places. Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies. Look bravely up into the sky, and be content with knowing that God wished for a butter cup just here where you are growing. Sarah Orn Jewett. The nightingale and the glowworm. A nightingale that all day long had cheered the village with his song, nor yet at eve his note suspended, nor yet when even tide was ended, began to feel as well, he might, the keen demands of appetite, when looking eagerly around he spied far off upon the ground, a something shining in the dark, and knew the glowworm by his spark. So stooping down from Hawthorne top he thought to put him in his crop. The worm aware of his attempt harangued him thus, right eloquent. Did you admire my lamp, quote he, as much as I, your ministry? You would abhor to do me wrong, as much as I to spoil your song, for twas the self-same power divine taught you to sing and me to shine. That you with music, I with light, might beautify and cheer the night. The songster heard this short oration, and warbling out his approbation, released him as my story tells, and found a supper somewhere else. William Cowper. Thanksgiving Day. Over the river and through the wood, to grandfather's house we go, the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, through the white and drifted snow, over the river and through the wood. Oh, how the wind does blow, it stings the toes and bites the nose as over the ground we go, over the river and through the wood, to have a first rate play. Hear the bells ring, ting aling ding, hooray for Thanksgiving Day. Over the river and through the wood, trough fast my dapple gray, spring over the ground like a hunting hound, for this is Thanksgiving Day. Over the river and through the wood and straight through the barnyard gate, we seem to go extremely slow, it is so hard to wait. Over the river and through the wood, now grandmother's cap I spy, hooray for the fun, is the pudding done, hooray for the pumpkin pie. Lydia Maria Child. A Thanksgiving Fable. It was a hungry pussycat upon Thanksgiving mourn, and she watched a thankful little mouse that ate an ear of corn. If I ate that thankful little mouse, how thankful he should be, when he has made a meal himself to make a meal for me. Then with his thanks for having fed, and his thanks for feeding me, with all his thankfulness inside, how thankful I shall be. Thus mused the hungry pussycat upon Thanksgiving Day, but the little mouse had overheard and declined with thanks to stay. Oliver Herford. The Bank Pie's Nest. A Fable. When the arts in their infancy were, in a fable of old tits expressed, a wise magpie constructed that rare little house for young birds called a nest. This was talked of the whole country round. You might hear it on every bow sung. Now no longer upon the rough ground will fond mothers brood over their young. For the magpie with exquisite skill has invented a moss-covered cell, within which a whole family will, in the utmost security twelve. To our mate each freemell bird say, Let us fly to the magpie, my dear, if she will but teach us the way, a nest we will build us up here. It's a thing that's close arched overhead, with a hole made to creep out and end. We, my bird, might make just a bed, if we only knew how to begin. To the magpie soon every bird went, and in modest terms made their request. That she would be pleased to consent, to teach them to build up a nest. She replied, I will show you the way, so observe everything that I do. First two sticks cross each other I lay, to be sure, said the crow, why I knew. It must be begun with two sticks, and I thought that they cross should be, said the pie. Then some straw and moss mix, in the way you now see, done by me. Oh yes, certainly, said the jack-daw, that must follow, of course, I have thought. Though I never before building saw, I guessed that without being taught. More moss, straw, and feathers I place, in this manner, continued the pie. Yes, no doubt, madame, that is the case, though no builder myself so thought I. Whatever she taught them beside, in his turn every bird of them said, though the nest-making art he'd never tried, he had just a thought in his head. Still the pie went on showing her art, till a nest she had built halfway. She no more of her skill would impart, but in her anger went fluttering away, and the speech in their hearing she made, as she perched o'er their heads on a tree. If you all were well-skilled in my trade, pray why came ye to learn it of me? When a scholar is willing to learn, he with silent submission should hear, too late they there fully discern, the effect to this day does appear. For whenever a pie's nest you see, her charming warm canopy view, all birds' nests but hers seem to be, a magpite's nest just cut in two. Charles and Mary Lamb The owl and the pussycat The owl and the pussycat went to sea, in a beautiful pea-green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note. The owl looked up to the moon above, and sang to a small guitar, O lovely pussy, o pussy my love, what a beautiful pussy you are! You are, what a beautiful pussy you are! Pussy said to the owl, you elegant fowl, how wonderful sweet you sing! O let us be married, too long we have tarried, but what shall we do for a ring? They sailed away for a year and a day, to the land where the bong tree grows, and there in a wood a piggy wig stood, with a ring at the end of his nose. His nose with a ring at the end of his nose. Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shelling your ring? said the piggy, I will. So they took it away and were married next day, by the turkey who lives on the hill. They dined upon mints and slices of quince, which they ate with a run-couple spoon. And hand in hand on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon. The moon, they danced by the light of the moon. Edward Lear, a lobster quadril. Will you walk a little faster? said a whitening to a snail. There is a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance. They are waiting on the shingle. Will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you? Will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? You can really have no notion how delightful it will be. When they take us up and throw us with the lobsters out to sea. But the snail replied too far, too far, and gave a look, a scance. Said he thanked the whitening kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance. What matters it how far we go, his scaly friend replied. There is another shore you know upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France. Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance? Lewis Carroll. The fairies shopping. Where do you think the fairies go shopping to buy their blankets or the snow? When autumn comes with frosty days, the sorry shivering little phase, begin to think it's time to creep down to their caves for winter sleep. But first they come from far and near to buy where shops are not too dear. The wind and frost brings prices down, so falls their time to come to town. Where on the hillside rough and steep, browse all day long the cows and sheep, the mullions yellow candles burn over the heads of dry sweet fern. O summer long the mullion weaves, his soft and thick and woolly leaves. Warmer blankets were never seen, than those broad leaves of fuzzy green. The cost of each is but a shekel made from the gold of honey shekel. To buy their sheets and fine white lace, with which to trim a pillowcase, they only have to go next door, where stands a sleek brown spider's store. And there they find the misty threads, ready to cut into sheets and spreads. Then for a pillow pluck with care, some soft winged seeds as light as air. Just what they want the thistle brings, but thistles are such surely things. And so though it is somewhat high, the comatose the fairies buy. The only bedsteads that they need are soaky pods of right milkweed, with hangings of the dearest things, autumn leaves, or butterflies' wings. And dandelions fuzzy heads, they use to stuff their feather beds, and yellow snap-dragons supply the night-caps that the fairies buy, to which some blades of grass they pin, and tie them beneath each little chin. Then, shopping done, the fairies cry, are summers gone, oh sweet goodbye! And sadly too their caves they go, to hide away from winter snow, and then the winds and storms may beat, the fairies sleep, is warm and sweet. Margaret DeLand. Fable. The mountain and the squirrel had a quarrel, and the former called the latter little prig. Bun replied, you are doubtless very big, but all sorts of things and weather must be taken in together, to make up a year and a sphere. And I think it no disgrace to occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, you are not so small as I, and not half so spry. I'll not deny you make, a very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ, all is well and wisely put. If I cannot carry forests on my back, neither can you crack a nut. Walf Waldo Emerson. A Midsummer Song. Oh father's gone to market town, he was up before the day, and Jamie's after Robbins, and the man is making hay, and whistling down the hollow goes the boy that mines the mill. While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will, Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn. Oh where's Polly? From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound, a murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground, the birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons, bill and coo, and over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo. Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn. Oh where's Polly? Above the trees the honeybees swarm by with buzz and boom, and in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom, within the farmer's meadow a brown eyed daisy blows, and down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose, but Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn. Oh where's Polly? How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter. The farmer's wife is listing now and wonders what's the matter. Oh while the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, while whistling up the hollow goes the boy that mines the mill. But Polly, Polly, the cows are in the corn. Oh where's Polly? Richard Watson Gilder, the fairies of the cauldron low. And where have you been, my Mary, and where have you been from me? I've been to the top of the cauldron low the midsummer night to see, and what did you see, my Mary, all up on the cauldron low? I saw the blight sunshine come down, and I saw the Mary winds blow. And what did you hear, my Mary, up on the cauldron hill? I heard the drops of water made, and I heard the corn ears fill. Oh tell me all, my Mary, all, all that ever you know, for you must have seen the fairies last night on the cauldron low. Then take me on your knee, mother, and listen, mother of mine. A hundred fairies danced last night, and the harpers they were nine. And Mary was the glee of the harp strings, and their dancing feet so small, but oh the sound of their talking was merrier far than all. And what were the words, my Mary, that you did hear them say? I'll tell you all, my mother, but let me have my way. And some they played with the water, and rolled it down the hill, and this, they say, shall speedily turn the poor old miller's mill. For there has been no water ever since the first of May, and a busy man shall the miller be by the dawning of the day. Oh the miller how he will laugh when he sees the mill damn rise, the jolly old miller how he will laugh till the tears fill both his eyes. And some they seized the little winds that sounded over the hill, and each put a horn into his mouth and blew so sharp and shrill. And there, said they, the merry winds go away from every horn, and those shall clear the mill-dude dank from the blind old widow's corn. Oh the poor blind widow, though she has been blind so long, shall be merry enough when the mill-dude's gone, and the corn stands stiff and strong. And some they brought the brown linseed, and flung it down from the low, and this, said they, by the sunrise, in the weaver's croft shall grow. Oh the poor lame weaver how will he laugh outright when he sees his dwindling flax-field, all full of flowers by night. And then ump spoke a brownie with a long beard on his chin. I have spun up all the tow, said he, and I want some more to spin. I spun a piece of hempencloth, and I want to spin another, a little sheet for Mary's bed, and an apron for her mother. And with that I could not help but laugh, and I laughed out loud and free. And then on top of the caldon low there was no one left but me. And all on top of the caldon low the mists were cold and gray, and nothing I saw but the bossy stones that round about me they. But as I came down from the hill-top I heard afar below. How busy that jolly old Milner was! And how Mary the wheel did go! And I peeped into the widows-field, and sure enough was seen the yellow ears of the mild-weed corn, all standing stiff and green. And down by the weavers' croft I stole to see if the flax were high. But I saw the weaver at his gate with the good news in his eye. Now this is all that I heard, mother, and all that I did see. So prithee make my bed, mother, for I'm tired as I can be. Mary Howet. The Elf and the Dormouse Under a toadstool crept a wee elf out of the rain to shelter himself. Under the toadstool, sound asleep, sat a big normos, all in a heap. Trumbled the wee elf, frightened, and yet fearing to fly away, lest he got wet. To the next shelter, maybe a mile, sudden the wee elf smiled a wee smile. Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two. Holding it over him, gaily he flew. Soon he was safe home, dry as could be. Soon woke the Dormouse, good gracious me! Where is my toadstool? Loud he lamented. And that's how umbrellas first were invented. Oliver Herford Meg Merleys. Old Meg, she was a gypsy, and lived upon the moors. Her bed it was the brown heath turf, and her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, her currants pods o' brome. Her wine was due of the wild white rose, her book a church yard tomb. Her brothers were the craggy hills, her sisters larch and trees. Alone with her great family, she lived as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, no dinner many a noon. Instead of supper she would stare, full hard against the moon. But every morning of woodbine fresh, she made her garlanding, and every night the dark land knew she wore, and she would sing. And with her fingers old and brown, she plated mats of rushes, and gave them to the cottagers. She met among the bushes. Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, and tall as Amazon. An old red blanket cloaked she wore, as ship had had she on. God rest her age bold somewhere. She died full long a gone. John Keats Romance I saw a ship assailing, assailing on the sea. Her mass were of the shining gold, her deck of ivory, and sails of silk as soft as milk, and silver in shouts, had she. And round about her sailing the sea was sparkling white. The waves all clapped their hands and sang to sea so fair a sight. They kissed her twice, they kissed her thrice, and murmured with delight. Then came the gallant captain, and stood upon the deck, in velvet coat and ruffles white, without a spot or speck, and diamond rings and triple strings of pearls around his neck. And four and twenty sailors were round him bowing low, on every jacket three times three gold buttons in a row, and cutless as down to their knees they made a godly show. And then the ship was sailing, assailing on the sea. She died beyond the setting sun, but never back came she, for she found the lands of the golden sands where the pearls and diamonds be. Gabriel Satune The Cowboy Song Moly cow, moly cow, home from the wood. They sent me to fetch you as fast as I could. The sun has gone down, it is time to go home. Moly cow, moly cow, why don't you come? Your udders are full, and the milkmaid is there, and the children are waiting their supper to share. I have let the long bars down. Why don't you pass through? The moly cow only said moo. Moly cow, moly cow, have you not been? Regaling all day where the pastures are green. No doubt it was pleasant. Dear moly to see, the clear running brook, and the wide spreading tree, the clover to crop, and the streamlet to wade, to drink the cool water and lie in the shade. But now it is night, they are waiting for you. The moly cow only said moo. Moly cow, moly cow, where do you go? When all the green pastures are covered with snow. You go to the barn, and we feed you with hay, and the maid goes to milk you there every day. She speaks to you kindly, and sits by your side. She pats you, she loves you, she strokes your sleek hide. Then come along home, pretty moly cow do. But the moly cow only said moo. Moly cow, moly cow, whisking your tail. The milkmaid is waiting, I say, with a pale. She tucks up her petticoats, toddy and neat, and places the three-legged stool for her seat. What can you be staring at, moly? You know, that we ought to have gone home an hour ago. How dark is it growing, or what shall I do? The moly cow only said moo. Anna M. Wells End of Chapter 8. Recording by Linda M. Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter 9 of The Posey Ring A book averse for children by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Bedtime Poems When the golden day is done, through the closing portal, child and garden, flower and sun, vanish all things mortal, Robert Louis Stevenson. Odd Daddy Darkness Odd Daddy Darkness creeps, fray his whole, Black as a black amour, blend as a mole, stir the fire till it blows, let the bernie sit. Odd Daddy Darkness is not wanted yet. See him in the corners, hide and fray the light. See him at the window, gloomin' at the night. Turn up the gaslight, close the shutters, ah, and Odd Daddy Darkness will flee far awa, awa to hide the birdie, within its cozy nest, awa to lap the wee floors on their mother's breast, awa to loosen gaffer-toil, fray his daily car, for Odd Daddy Darkness is kindly to ah. He comes when we're weary, to wean fray or waze. He comes when the bernies are getting off their clays, to cover them secozy, and bring bonny dreams, so Odd Daddy Darkness is better than he seems. Steak your in, may we tote. You'll see Daddy then. He's in below the bed-case, to cuddle ye his vein. Knew nestle in his boozy, sleep and dream your fill, till wee Davy Daylight comes keakin' or the hill. James Ferguson Wiccan, Blicken, and Nod Wiccan, Blicken, 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 Wiccan, Blicken, 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 of fear are we. So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wiccan, Blicken, 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 dreamed, of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fisherman three, Wiccan, Blicken, and Nod. Wiccan and Blicken are two little eyes, and Nod is a little head. And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies, is a we, 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 wrought the fisherman three, Wiccan, Blicken, and Nod. Eugene Field Rock-a-bye lullaby Rock-a-bye lullaby bees on the clover, crooning so drowsily crying so low. Rock-a-bye lullaby, dear little rover, down into wonderland, down to the underland, go, oh go, down into wonderland, go. Rock-a-bye lullaby rain on the clover, tears on the eyelids that struggle and weep. Rock-a-bye lullaby bending it over, down on the mother world, down on the other world, sleep, oh sleep, down on the mother world, sleep. Rock-a-bye lullaby dew on the clover, dew on the eyes that will sparkle at dawn. Rock-a-bye lullaby, dear little rover, into the silly world, into the lily world, gone, oh gone, into the lily world, gone. Josiah Gilbert Holland Sleep, my treasure. Sleep, sleep, my treasure, the long day's pleasure, has tired the birds to their nests they creep, the garden still is, a light with fillies, but all the daisies are fast asleep. Sleep, sleep, my darling, dawn wakes the starling. The sparrow stirs when he sees daybreak, but all the meadow is wrapped in shadow, and you must sleep till the daisies wake. E. Nesbitt Lullaby of an infant chief Oh hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright. The woods and the glens from the tower, which we see, they all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, it calls but the waters that guard thy repose, their bows would be bended, their blades would be read, or that step of a fobin draws near to thy bed. O hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come, when thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum. Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, for strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. Sir Walter Scott Sweet and Low Sweet and Low, Sweet and Low, Wind of the Western Sea, Low, Low, Breathe and Blow, Wind of the Western Sea, over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon, and blow, blow him again to me, while my little one, my, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon. Rest, rest on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon. Father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west, under the silver moon. Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. Alfred, Lord Tennyson Old Gaelic lullaby Hush, the waves are rolling in. White with foam, white with foam. Father twiles amid the din, but baby sleeps at home. Hush, the winds roar, hoarse and deep. On they come, on they come. Brother seeks the wandering sheep, but baby sleeps at home. Hush, the rain sweet, or the nose. Where they roam, where they roam. Sister goes to seek the cows, but baby sleeps at home, unknown. The Sandman The rosy clouds float overhead, the sun is going down, and now the Sandman's gentle tread comes stealing through the town. White sand, white sand, he softly cries, and as he shakes his hand, straight way there lies, on baby's eyes, his gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown. As shots the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. From sunny beaches far away, yes, in another land, he gathers up at break of day, his store of shining sand. No tempest beat, that's sure remote, no ships may sail that way, his little boat alone may float within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown. As shots the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. He smiles to see the eyelid's close, above the happy eyes, and every child right while he knows, oh, he is very wise, but if, as he goes through the land, a naughty baby cries, his other hand takes the gray sand to close the waitful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown. As shots the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. So when you hear the sandman's song, sound through the twilight street. Be sure you do not keep him long, awaiting on the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, rest quiet, busy hands, till, by your bed, his good night said, he strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown. As shots the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. Margaret Vandergrift. The Conagier, too, her infant. The days are cold, the nights are long. The Northwind sings a doful song. Then hush again, upon my breast. All merry things are now at rest. Save thee, my pretty love. The kitten sleeps upon the hearth. The crickets long have ceased their mirth. There's nothing stirring in the house. Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse. Then why so busy thou? Nay, start not at, that sparkling light, Tiss but the moon that shines so bright. On the window-prane be dropped with rain. There, little darling, sleep again, and wake when it is day. Dorothy Wordsworth. A charm to call sleep. Sleep, sleep, come to me, sleep. Come to my blankets and come to my bed. Come to my legs and my arms and my head. Over me, under me, into me creep. Sleep, sleep, come to me, sleep. Blow on my face like a soft breath of air. Lay your cool hand on my forehead and hair. Carry me down through the dream waters deep. Sleep, sleep, come to me, sleep. Tell me the secrets that you alone know. Show me the wonders none other can show. Open the box where your treasures you keep. Sleep, sleep, come to me, sleep. Softly I call you, as soft and as slow. Come to me, cuddle me, stay with me, so. Stay till the dawn is beginning to peep. Henry Johnson. Night. The snow is white, the wind is cold. The king has sent for my three-year-old. Bring the pony and shoe him fast. With silver shoes that were made to last. Bring the saddle trim with gold. Put foot in stirrup, my three-year-old. Jump in the saddle, away, away, and hurry back by the break of day. By break of day, through dale and dawn, and bring me the news from slumber town. Mary F. Butts. Bedtime. Tis bedtime, say, your hymn and bid good night. God bless mama, papa, and dear ones all. Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall. Another minute you will shut them quite. Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, and tuck you up, although you are so tall. What will you give me, sleeping one, and call? My wages, if I settle you all right. I lain her golden curls upon my arm. I drew her little feet within my hand. Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss. Her heart next mine beat gently, soft, and warm. She nestled to me, and by love's command. Paid me my precious wages, baby's kiss. Lord Rosalind. Nightful in Dorideck. The mill goes toiling slowly around, with steady and solemn creak. And my little one hears in the kindly sound the voice of the old mill speak, while round and round those big white wings, grimly and ghost-like creep, my little one hears that, the old mill sings, sleep, little tulips sleep. And sails are reefed, and the nets are drawn, and over his pot a beer. The fisher against the morrows dawn, lustly maketh cheer. He mocks at the winds that caper along from the far off clamorous deep. But we, we love their lullaby song of sleep, little tulip sleep. Old dog fritz in slumber sound, groans of the stony mart. To-morrow how proud they he'll trot you round, hitch to our new milk cart. And you shall help me blanket the kind, and fold the gentle sheep, and set the herring a-soak in brine, but now, little tulip sleep. A dream one comes to button the eyes that wearily droop and blink, while the old mill buffets the frowning skies, and scolds at the stars that wink. Over your face the misty wings of that beautiful dream once sweep, and rocking your cradle she softly sings, sleep, little tulip sleep. Eugene Field Sunday's Child Palms Sunday's Child is Full of Grace Old Proverb All Things Bright and Beautiful All Things Bright and Beautiful All Creatures Great and Small All Things Wise and Wonderful The Lord God made them all Each little flower that opens Each little bird that sings He made their glowing colors He made their tiny wings The rich man in his castle The poor man at his gate God made them high or lowly And ordered their estate The purple-headed mountain The river running by The sunset and the morning That brightens up the sky The cold wind in the winter The pleasant summer sun The ripe fruits in the garden He made them every one The tall trees in the greenwood The meadows where we play The rushes by the water We gather every day He gave us eyes to see them And lips that we might tell How great is God Almighty Who has made all things well Cecil Francis Alexander The Still Small Voice We, Sandy, in the corner Sits greeting on a stool And sear the lady ruse Playing truant fray the school Then you'll learn fraysily Sandy What's gotten sick afright To do nothing through the day That may gar ye greet at night He dirns to venture home now Nor play though ear so fine And Ilka and he met we He thought them sure to ken And started at Ilkwin Bush Though it was bright daylight Say do nothing through the day That may gar ye greet at night While Winna be advised Are sure to rue Erlang And Mako pains it cost them To do the thing that's rang When they we have the fast shot Might a be in the right And do nothing through the day That would gar them greet at night What fools are Wilfen bairns Whose misbehave for home There's something in the breast day That tells them there to blame And then when comes the glumen There in a wayful plight Say do nothing through the day That may gar ye greet at night Alexander smart The camels knows Once in his shop a workman wrought With languid head and listless thought When through the open window space Behold a camel thrust his face My nose is cold He meekly cried Oh let me warm it by thy side Since no denial word was said In came the nose In came the head As sure as sermon follows text The long and scraggly neck came next And then as falls the threatening storm Inleap the whole ungainly form A gas the owner gazed around And on the rude invader frowned Convinced as closer still he pressed There was no room for such a guest Yet more astonish heard him say If thou art troubled go away For in this place I choose to stay O youthful hearts to gladness borne Treat not this Arab lore with scorn To evil habits earliest while Lend neither ear nor glance nor smile Choke the dark fountain ere it flows Nor in admit the camel's nose Lydia H. Sigourney A child's grace Some hay meet and canna eat And some would eat that want it But we have meat and we can eat And say the Lord be thank it Robert Burns A child's thought of God They say that God lives very high But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God and why If you dig down in the mines You never see him in the gold Though from him all That's glory shines God is so good he wears a fold Of heaven and earth across his face Like secrets kept for love untold But still I feel that his embrace Slides down by thrills through all things made Through sight and sound of every place As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids her kisses pressure Half waking me at night and said Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser? Elizabeth Barrett Browning The Lamb Little Lamb, who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Give thee life and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead Gave thee clothing of delight Softest clothing woolly bright Gave thee such a tender voice Making all the veils rejoice Little Lamb, who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Little Lamb, I'll tell thee Little Lamb, I'll tell thee He is called by thy name For he calls himself a Lamb He is meek and he is mild He became a little child I a child and though a Lamb We are called by his name Little Lamb, God bless thee Little Lamb, God bless thee William Blake Night and day When I run about all day When I kneel at night to pray God sees When I'm dreaming in the dark When I lie awake and hark God sees Need I ever know a fear Night and day My father's near God sees Mary maips dodge High and low The showers fall as softly Upon the lowly grass As on the stately roses That trample as they pass The sunlight shines as brightly On fernsleys bent and torn As on the golden carvis The fields of waving corn The wild birds sing as sweetly To rugged jagged pines As to the blossom orchards And to the cultured vines Dora read Gooddale By cool psalms shady rail By cool psalms shady rail How sweet the lily grows How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose Low, such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod Whose secret heart with influence sweet Is upward drawn to God Reginald Herber Sheep and lambs All in the April morning April airs were abroad The sheep with their little lambs Pass me on the road The sheep with their little lambs Pass me by on the road All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God The lambs were weary and crying With a weak human cry I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die Up in the blue blue mountains Dewey pastures are sweet Rest for the little bodies Rest for the little feet All in the April evening April airs were abroad I saw the sheep with their lambs And thought on the Lamb of God Catherine Tyon Hinkson To a savior a child A present by a child Go pretty child and bear this flower Unto thy little savior And tell him by that bud now blown He is the rose of Sharon known When thou hast said so Stick it there Upon his bib or stomacher And tell him for good Hansel to That thou hast brought a whistle new Made of a clean straight Oten reed To charm his cries at time of need Tell him for quarrel thou hast none But if thou hast he should have won But pour thou art and known to be Even as moneyless as he Lastly if thou canst win a kiss From those melaferious lips of his Then never take a second on To spoil the first impression Robert Herrick What would you see? What would you see if I took you up To my little nest in the air? You would see the sky like a clear blue cup Turned upside down where it's there What would you do if I took you there To my little nest in the tree? My child with cries would trouble the air To get what she could but see What would you get in the top of the tree For all your crying and grief Not a star would you clutch of all you see You could only gather a leaf But when you had lost your greedy grief Content to see from afar You would find in your hand a withering leaf In your heart a shining star George MacDonald Cornfields When on the breath of autumn's breeze From pastures dry and brown Goes floating like an idle thought The fair white thistle down Oh, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest hill What joy in dreaming ease to lie Amid a field new shorn And see all round on sunlit slopes The piled up shocks of corn And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest fields of yore I feel the day I see the field The quivering of the leaves And good old Jacob and his horse Binding the yellow sheaves And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream I see the fields of Bethlehem And reapers many a one Bending unto their sickle stroke And bows looking on And Ruth the Moab disfair Among the cleaners stooping there Again I see a little child His mother's soul delight God's living gift of love unto The kind good Shewan might To mortal pains I see him yield And the lad bear him from the field The sun bathed quiet of the hills The fields of Galilee That eighteen hundred years ago Were full of corn I see And dear savior take his way Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day O golden fields of bending corn How beautiful they seem The reaper folk the piled up sheaves To me are like a dream The sunshine and the very air Seem of old time and take me there Mary how it Little crystal One Solely forth from the village church The voice of the choristers hushed overhead Came little crystal She paused in the porch Pondering what the preacher had said Even the youngest humblest child Something may do to please the Lord Now what, thought she, and half sadly smiled Can I so little and poor afford Never, never a day should pass Without some kindness kindly shown The preacher said Then down to the grass a skylark dropped Like a brown-winged stone Well, a day is before me now Yet what, thought she, can I do if I try If an angel of God would show me how But silly am I and the hours they fly Then the lark sprang singing up from the sod And the maiden thought as he rose to the blue He says he will carry my prayer to God But who would have thought the little lark knew Two Now she entered the village street With book in hand and face to mirror And soon she came with sober feet To a crying babe at a cottage door It wept at a windmill that would not move It puffed with round red cheeks in vain One sail struck fast in a puzzling groove And baby's breath could not stir it again So baby beat the sail and cried While no one came from the cottage door But little crystal knelt down by its side And set the windmill going once more Then babe was pleased and the little girl Was glad when she heard it laugh and crow Thinking happy windmill that has but to whirl To please the pretty young creature so Three No thought of herself was in her head As she passed out at the end of the street And came to a rose tree tall and red Drooping in faint with a summer heat She ran to a brook that was flowing by She made of her two hands a nice round cup And washed the roots of the rose tree high Till it lifted its languid blossoms up Oh happy brook thought little crystal You have done some good this summer's day You have made the flowers look fresh and well Then she rose and went on her way William brightly rands A child's prayer God make my life a little light Within the world to glow A tiny flame that burneth bright Wherever I may go God make my life a little flower That bringeth joy to all Content to bloom in native bower Although its place be small God make my life a little song That comforteth the sad That helpeth others to be strong And makes the singer glad M. Bethan Edwards End of chapter 10 Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. Chapter number 11 Of The Posey Ring A Book of Verse for Children By various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. Bells of Christmas Poems Then let the holly red be hung And all the sweetest carols sung While we with joy remember them The journeyers to Bethlehem Frank Dempster Sherman The Adoration of the Wise Men Saw you never in the twilight When the sun had left the skies Up in heaven the clear stars shining Through the gloom like silver eyes So of old the wise men watching Saw a little stranger star And they knew the king was given And they followed it from far Heard you never of the story How they crossed the desert wild Journeyed on by plain and mountain Till they found the holy child How they opened all their treasure Kneeling to that infant king Gave the gold and fragrant incense Gave the myrrh in offering No yeath not that lowly baby Was the bright and morning star He who came to light the gentiles And the darkened isle afar And we too may seek his cradle There our hearts best treasures bring Love and faith and true devotion For our Saviour, God and King Cecil Francis Alexander Cradle him Hush my dear, lie still and slumber Holy angels guard thy bed Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head Sleep by babe, thy food and raiment House and home thy friends provide All without thy care or payment All thy wants are well supplied How much better thou art attended Than the Son of God could be When from heaven he descended And became a child like thee Soft and easy is thy cradle Course and hard thy Saviour lay When his birthplace was a stable And his softest bed was hay See the kindly shepherds round him Telling wonders from the sky When they sought him there they found him With his virgin mother by See the lovely babe addressing Lovely infant how he smiled When he wept the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child Low he slumbers in his manger Where the honest oxen fed Peace my darling, here's no danger Here's no ox on near thy bed Mayest thou live to know and fear him Trust and love him all thy days Then go dwell forever near him See his face and sing his praise I could give thee thousand kisses Hoping what I most desire Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire Isaac Watts The Christmas Silence Hushed are the pigeons cooing low On dusty rafters of the loft And mild-eyed oxen breathing soft Sleep on the fragrant hay below Dim shadows in the corner hide The glimmering lanterns rays are shed Where one young lamb just lifts his head Then huddles against his mother's side Strange silence tingles in the air Through the half-open door a bar A light from one low-hanging star Touches a baby's radiant hair No sound the mother kneeling lays Her cheek against the little face O human love, O heavenly grace Tiss yet in silence that she prays Ages of silence in to-night Then to the long-expected earth Glad angels come to greet his birth In burst of music, love and light Margaret DeLand An Offertory Oh, the beauty of the Christ child The gentleness, the grace The smiling, loving tenderness The infantile embrace A babyhood he holdeth A motherhood enfoldeth Yet who hath seen his face Oh, the nearness of the Christ child When, for a sacred space He nestles in our very homes Light of the human race We know him and we love him No man to us need prove him Yet who hath seen his face Maple maips dodge Christmas song Why do bells for Christmas ring? Why do little children sing? Once a lovely shining star Seen by shepherds from afar Gently moved until its light Made a manger cradle bright There a darling baby lay Pillowed soft upon the hay And his mother sang and smiled This is Christ, the holy child So the bells for Christmas ring So the little children sing Lydia Avery Coonley Ward A visit from St. Nicholas T'was a night before Christmas Went all through the house Not a creature was stirring Not even a mouse The stockings were hung By the chimney with care In hopes that St. Nicholas Soon would be there The children were nestled All snug in their beds While visions of sugar plums Danced in their heads And mama inner kerchief And I in my cap Had just settled our brains For a long winter snap When out on the lawn There arose such a clatter I sprang from my bed To see what was the matter Away to the window I flew like a flash Tor opened the shutter And threw up the sash The moon on the breast Of the new fallen snow Gave a luster of midday To objects below When what to my wondering Eyes should appear But a miniature sleigh And eight tiny reindeer With a little old driver So lively and quick I knew in a moment It must be St. Nick More rapid than eagles His coarsers they came And he whistled and shouted And called them by name Now Dasher now Dancer Now Prancer and Fixon On Comet on Cupid On Daunder and Blitzen To the top the porch To the top of the wall Now dash away, dash away, dash away all As dry leaves that Before the wild hurricane fly When they meet with an obstacle Mount to the sky So up to the housetop The coarsers they flew With a sleigh full of toys And St. Nicholas too And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing Of each little hoof As I drew in my head And was turning around Down the chimney St. Nicholas Came with a bound He was dressed all in fur From his head to his foot And his clothes were all tarnished With ashes and soot A bundle of toys He had flung on his back And he looked like a peddler Just opening his pack His eyes how they twinkled His dimples how merry His cheeks were like roses His nose like a cherry His droll little mouth Was drawn up like a bow And the beard on his chin Was as white as a snow The stump of a pipe He held tight in his teeth And the smoke it encircled His head like a wreath He had a broad face and little Round belly That shook when he laughed Like a bowlful of jelly He was chubby and plump A right jolly old elf And I laughed when I saw him In spite of myself A wink of his eye And a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread He spoke not a word But went straight to his work And filled all the stockings Then turned with a jerk And laying his finger A side of his nose And giving a nod Up the chimney he rose He sprang to his sleigh To his team gave a whistle And away they all flew Like the down of a thistle But I heard him explain Or they drove out of sight Happy Christmas to all And to all a good night Clement C. Moore The Christmas trees There's a stir among the trees There's a whisper in the breeze Little ice points clash and clink Little needles nod and wink Sturdy fir trees sway and sigh Here am I, here am I All the summer long I stood In the silence of the woods Tall and tapering I grew What might happen well I knew For one day a little bird Sang and in the song I heard Many things quite strange to me Of Christmas and the Christmas tree When the sun was hid from sight In the darkness of the night When the wind was sudden fret Pulled at my green coronet Staunch I stood and hid my fears Weeping silent, fragrant tears Praying still that I might be Fitted for our Christmas tree Now here we stand on every hand In us a horde of summer stored Birds have flown over us Blue sky has covered us Soft winds have sung to us Blossoms have flung to us Measureless sweetness Now in completeness we wait Mary F. Butts A birthday gift What can I give him, poor as I am If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb If I were a wise man I would do my part Yet what can I give him, give my heart Christina Rosetti A Christmas lullaby Sleep, baby, sleep, the mother sings Heaven's angels kneel and fold their wings Sleep, baby, sleep With swas of scented hay thy bed By Mary's hand at Eve was spread Sleep, baby, sleep At midnight came the shepherds they Whom Saras wakened by the way Sleep, baby, sleep And three kings from the east afar Erdron came guided by the star Sleep, baby, sleep They brought three gifts of golden gems Pure orient pearls, rich diadems Sleep, baby, sleep But though who liest slumbering there Art king of kings earth ocean air Sleep, baby, sleep Sleep, baby, sleep The shepherd sing Through heaven through earth Hosanna's ring Sleep, baby, sleep John Addington Simmons I saw three ships I saw three ships come sailing in On Christmas day, on Christmas day I saw three ships come sailing in On Christmas day, in the morning Pray wither sailed those ships all three On Christmas day, on Christmas day Pray wither sailed those ships all three On Christmas day, in the morning Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem On Christmas day, on Christmas day Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem On Christmas day, in the morning And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas Day in the morning, And all the angels in heaven shall sing On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, And all the angels in heaven shall sing On Christmas Day in the morning, And all the souls on earth shall sing, On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, And all the souls on earth shall sing, On Christmas Day, in the morning. OLD CAROLE Santa Claus He comes in the night, he comes in the night, He softly silently comes, While the little brown heads on the pillows so white Are dreaming of bugles and drums. He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam, While the white flakes around him whirl, Who tells him I know not, But he findeth the home of each good little boy and girl. His sleigh it is long and deep and wide, It will carry a host of things, While dozens of drums hang over the side, With the sticks sticking under the strings, And yet not a sound of a drum is heard, Not a bugle blast is blown, As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird, And drops to the hearth like a stone. The little red stockings he silently fills, Till the stockings will hold no more. The bright little sleds for the great snow-hills Are quickly set down on the floor. Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird, And glides to his seat in the sleigh. Not the sound of a bugle or drum is heard, As he noiselessly gallops away. He rides to the east and he rides to the west, Of his goodies he touches not one. He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast, When the dear little folks are done. Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can, This beautiful mission is his. Then children be good to the little old man, When you find who the little man is. Unknown. Neighbours of the Christ Night. Deep in the shelter of the cave, The ass with drooping head, Did weary in the shadow where his master's hand had led, About the manger oxen lay, Bending a wide ice gaze, Upon the little newborn babe, Half worship, half amaze, High in the roof the doves were set, And cooed there, soft and mild, Yet not so sweet as, in the hay, The mother to her child. The gentle cows breathe fragrant breath To keep babe Jesus warm, While loud and clear, o'er hill and dale, The cocks crowed, Christ is born, Out in the fields beneath the stars The young lamb's sleeping lay, And dreamed that in the manger slept Another white as they. These were thy neighbours, Christmas child, To thee their love was given, For in thy baby face there shone The wonder light of heaven. Nora Archibald Smith. Cradle him. Away in the manger, no crib for a bed, The little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head, The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay, The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay. The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, But little Lord Jesus no crying he makes. I love thee, Lord Jesus, look down from the sky, And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh. Martin Luther. The Christmas holly. The holly, the holly, O twine it with bay, Come give the holly a song, For it helps to dry stern winter away, With his garments so somber and long It peeps through the trees with its berries of red, And its leaves of burnish green, When the flowers and fruits have long been dead, And not even the daisy is seen. Then sing to the holly the Christmas holly That hangs over peasant and king, While we laugh and carouse Neath its glittering boughs, To the Christmas holly we'll sing. Eliza Cook. Say I to myself, Here's a chance for me, The little put Lord it for to be, And these are the specimens I sent in To Pinafore Palace shall I win. William Brightie Rans. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. End of the Posey Ring, A Book of Verse for Children by Various Authors