Songs of Childhood | Page 5

102
LULLABY 104
ENVOY, 106
THE GNOMIES
As I lay awake in the white moonlight,?I heard a sweet singing in the wood--
'Out of bed,?Sleepyhead,?Put your white foot now,?Here are we,?'Neath the tree,?Singing round the root now!'
I looked out of window in the white moonlight,?The trees were like snow in the wood--
'Come away?Child and play,?Light wi' the gnomies;?In a mound,?Green and round,?That's where their home is!?'Honey sweet,?Curds to eat,?Cream and frumènty,?Shells and beads,?Poppy seeds,?You shall have plenty.'
But soon as I stooped in the dim moonlight?To put on my stocking and my shoe,?The sweet, sweet singing died sadly away,?And the light of the morning peep'd through:?Then instead of the gnomies there came a red robin?To sing of the buttercups and dew.
BLUEBELLS
Where the bluebells and the wind are,?Fairies in a ring I spied,?And I heard a little linnet?Singing near beside.
Where the primrose and the dew are,?Soon were sped the fairies all:?Only now the green turf freshens,?And the linnets call.
LOVELOCKS
I watched the Lady Caroline?Bind up her dark and beauteous hair;?Her face was rosy in the glass,?And 'twixt the coils her hands would pass,
White in the candleshine.
Her bottles on the table lay,?Stoppered yet sweet of violet;?Her image in the mirror stooped?To view those locks as lightly looped
As cherry-boughs in May.
The snowy night lay dim without,?I heard the Waits their sweet song sing;?The window smouldered keen with frost;?Yet still she twisted, sleeked and tossed
Her beauteous hair about.
O DEAR ME!
Here are crocuses, white, gold, grey!?'O dear me!' says Marjorie May;?Flat as a platter the blackberry blows:?'O dear me!' says Madeleine Rose;?The leaves are fallen, the swallows flown:?'O dear me!' says Humphrey John;?Snow lies thick where all night it fell:?'O dear me!' says Emmanuel.
TARTARY
If I were Lord of Tartary,?Myself and me alone,?My bed should be of ivory,?Of beaten gold my throne;?And in my court should peacocks flaunt,?And in my forests tigers haunt,?And in my pools great fishes slant?Their fins athwart the sun.
If I were Lord of Tartary,?Trumpeters every day?To all my meals should summon me,?And in my courtyards bray;?And in the evenings lamps should shine,?Yellow as honey, red as wine,?While harp, and flute, and mandoline,?Made music sweet and gay.
If I were Lord of Tartary,?I'd wear a robe of beads,?White, and gold, and green they'd be--?And small, and thick as seeds;?And ere should wane the morning-star,?I'd don my robe and scimitar,?And zebras seven should draw my car?Through Tartary's dark glades.
Lord of the fruits of Tartary,?Her rivers silver-pale!?Lord of the hills of Tartary,?Glen, thicket, wood, and dale!?Her flashing stars, her scented breeze,?Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas,?Her bird-delighting citron-trees?In every purple vale!
THE BUCKLE
I had a silver buckle,?I sewed it on my shoe,?And 'neath a sprig of mistletoe?I danced the evening through!
I had a bunch of cowslips,?I hid 'em in a grot,?In case the elves should come by night?And me remember not.
I had a yellow riband,?I tied it in my hair,?That, walking in the garden,?The birds might see it there.
I had a secret laughter,?I laughed it near the wall:?Only the ivy and the wind?May tell of it at all.
THE HARE
In the black furrow of a field?I saw an old witch-hare this night;?And she cocked her lissome ear,?And she eyed the moon so bright,?And she nibbled o' the green;?And I whispered 'Whsst! witch-hare,'?Away like a ghostie o'er the field?She fled, and left the moonlight there.
BUNCHES OF GRAPES
'Bunches of grapes,' says Timothy;?'Pomegranates pink,' says Elaine;?'A junket of cream and a cranberry tart?For me,' says Jane.
'Love-in-a-mist,' says Timothy;?'Primroses pale,' says Elaine;?'A nosegay of pinks and mignonette?For me,' says Jane.
'Chariots of gold,' says Timothy;?'Silvery wings,' says Elaine;?'A bumpity ride in a wagon of hay?For me,' says Jane.
JOHN MOULDY
I spied John Mouldy in his cellar,?Deep down twenty steps of stone;?In the dusk he sat a-smiling,?Smiling there alone.
He read no book, he snuffed no candle;?The rats ran in, the rats ran out;?And far and near, the drip of water?Went whisp'ring about.
The dusk was still, with dew a-falling,?I saw the Dog-star bleak and grim,?I saw a slim brown rat of Norway?Creep over him.
I spied John Mouldy in his cellar,?Deep down twenty steps of stone;?In the dusk he sat a-smiling,?Smiling there alone.
THE FLY
How large unto the tiny fly?Must little things appear!--?A rosebud like a feather bed,?Its prickle like a spear;
A dewdrop like a looking-glass,?A hair like golden wire;?The smallest grain of mustard-seed?As fierce as