Phebe, The Blackberry Girl | Page 4

to-day??And is it he that sends sweet showers?To make them look so gay?
Did he make all the mountains?That rear their heads so high??And all the little fountains?That glide so gently by?
And does he care for children small??Say, ma! does God love me?
Has he the guardian care of all?The various things we see?
Yes! yes! my child, he made them all--?Flowers, mountains, plants and tree;?No man so great, no child so small,?That from his eye can flee.
[Illustration]
THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS.
Put up thy work, dear mother;?Dear mother, come with me,?For I've found within the garden?The beautiful sweet-pea!
And rows of stately hollyhocks?Down by the garden-wall,?All yellow, white and crimson,?So many-hued and tall!
And bending on their stalks, mother,?Are roses white and red;
[Illustration: "Put up thy work, dear Mother."]
And pale-stemmed balsams all a-blow,?On every garden-bed.
Put up thy work, I pray thee,?And come out, mother dear!?We used to buy these flowers,?But they are growing here!
O, mother! little Amy?Would have loved these flowers to see;?Dost remember how we tried to get?For her a pink sweet-pea?
Dost remember how she loved?Those rose-leaves pale and sere??I wish she had but lived to see?The lovely roses here!
Put up thy work, dear mother,?And wipe those tears away!?And come into the garden?Before 'tis set of day!
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ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE
One, two,?Buckle my shoe;?Three, four,?Shut the door;?Five, six,?Pick up sticks;?Seven, eight,?Lay them straight;?Nine, ten,?A good fat hen;?Eleven, twelve,?Who will delve??Thirteen, fourteen,?Maids a courting;?Fifteen, sixteen,?Maids a kissing;?Seventeen, eighteen,?Maids a waiting;?Nineteen, twenty,?My stomach's empty.
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WASHING AND DRESSING.
Ah! why will my dear little girl be so cross,?And cry, and look sulky and pout??To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss;?I can't even kiss her without.
You say you don't like to be washed and be drest,?But would you be dirty and foul??Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast,?And clear your sweet face from its scowl.
If the water is cold, and the comb hurts your head,?And the soap has got into your eye,
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Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said??And what good will it do you to cry?
It is not to tease you, and hurt you, my sweet,?But only for kindness and care,?That I wash you and dress you, and make you look neat,?And comb out your tanglesome hair.
I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry,?But pay me for all with a kiss;?That's right, take the towel and wipe your wet eye;?I thought you'd be good after this.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE INDUSTRIOUS BOY.
In a cottage upon the heath wild,?That always was cleanly and nice,?Liv'd William, a good little child,?Who minded his parents' advice.
'Tis true he lov'd marbles and kite,?And spin-top, and nine-pins, and ball;?But this I declare with delight,?His book he loved better than all.
In active and useful employ?His youth gayly glided away;?While rational pleasures and joy?Attended his steps every day.
And now let us see him grown up;?Still cheerfulness dwelt in his mind,?Contentment yet sweeten'd his cup,?For still he was active and kind.
His garden well loaded with store,?His cot by the side of the green,?Where woodbines crept over the door.?And jessamines peep'd in between.
These fill'd him with honest delight,?And rewarded him well for his toil:?He went to bed cheerful at night,?And woke in the morn with a smile.
[Illustration]
WE ARE SEVEN
BY WM. WORDSWORTH.
A simple child,?That lightly draws its breath,?And feels its life in every limb.?What should it know of death!
I met a little cottage girl:?She was eight years old, she said;?Her hair was thick with many a curl?That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic woodland air,?And she was wildly clad:?Her eyes were fair, and very fair;?Her beauty made me glad.
Sisters and brothers, little maid,?How many may you be??How many? Seven in all, she said,?And wondering looked at me.
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And where are they? I pray you tell.?She answered seven are we;?And two of us at Conway dwell,?And two are gone to sea.
Two of us in the churchyard lie,?My sister and my brother;?And in the churchyard cottage, I?Dwell near them with my mother.
You say that two at Conway dwell,?And two are gone to sea,?Yet ye are seven!--I pray you, tell,?Sweet maid, how this may be.
Then did the little maid reply,?Seven boys and girls are we;?Two of us in the churchyard lie,?Beneath the churchyard tree.
You run about, my little maid?Your limbs they are alive;?If two are in the churchyard laid,?Then ye are only five.
Their graves are green, they may be seen,?The little maid replied,?Twelve steps or more from mother's door,?And they are side by side.
My stockings there I often knit.?My 'kerchief there I hem;
[Illustration: The Churchyard.]
And there upon the ground I sit--?sit and sing to them.
And often after sunset, sir,?When it is light and fair,?I take my little porringer,?And eat my supper there.
The first that died was little Jane;?In bed she moaning lay,?Till God released her of her pain;?And then she went away.
So in the churchyard she was laid;?And when the grass was dry,?Together round her grave we played,?My