The Keepsake | Page 2

breakfast in her hands.
"Julia, what shameful words are those!?What shameful conduct too!?The milk is good, too good for those?Who ask and speak like you.
"From Betty now your breakfast take,?And drink it, if you choose,?And beg that she your haughtiness?And passion will excuse.
"What! silent and perverse become??Then, Betty, you may go?And give the milk to that poor girl?Who's in the yard below.
"_She_ spins or labours hard all day,?Yet eats the coarsest food;?She's thankful for the smallest gift,?And smiles, because she's good.
"But you, with that sad pouting lip,?And brow o'erhung with gloom,?May, if you please, from hence retire,?And stay in your own room.
"No breakfast you will have to-day,?Nor need again appear,?Till from your brow you chase that frown,?And from your eye the tear.
"Till you can come with cheerful mien,?And pardon ask from me;?Then, if you are a better girl,?Forgiven you may be."
THE CUCKOO.
Little cuckoo, com'st thou here,?When the blooming spring is near,?To sing thy song and tell thy tale,?To every hill and every vale?
Tell me, is thy distant home?Far across the salt sea foam??Or hast thou, hidden from the day,?Slept the wintry hours away?
Welcome, cheering bird to me,?Where'er thy wintry mansion be,?In the earth, or o'er the main,?Welcome to these fields again!
[Illustration: _to face pa. 12_
_The Cuckoo_]
[Illustration: _to face pa. 13_
_Red and Black Shoes_]
Short thy visit to this shore,?April and May are quickly o'er;?Then, Cuckoo, chaunt thy strain in peace,?For in June thy song shall cease.
RED SHOES AND BLACK SHOES.
Which must I have, little black shoes or red shoes,?Little thick shoes or thin shoes, which shall be mine? In winter 'tis wet, and the roads are all dirt,?In summer 'tis dry, and the weather is fine.
Then come, little black shoes, 'tis now winter weather, Your soles are so thick, you will keep me quite dry;?Not a splash nor a spot can get into my stockings,?So nice and so tight round my ancles you tie.
And you, little red shoes, so slender and thin,?You shall wait in my draw'r till the dirt's gone away; When I'll walk with mamma when she goes to the farm,?You will never feel heavy through a long summer's day.
Then red shoes and black shoes, you both shall be mine, The one in the dirt I will constantly wear,?The others in summer, when the walks are all dry:?So thick shoes and thin shoes rest quietly here.
THE GARDENERS.
Now the wintry winds are gone,?See how brightly shines the sun;?The violet sweet and primrose pale,?Now adorn the shelter'd vale.
The pilewort rears her joyous head,?To the sunbeam widely spread,?Whilst her little glossy eye?Glows with a deep and yellow dye.
To the garden we will go,?Take the rake, the spade, the hoe,?Dig the border nice and clean,?And rake till not a weed be seen.
Then our radish-seed we'll sow,?And mignionette a long, long row;?And ev'ry flowret of the year,?Shall have a place of shelter here.
In gay profusion they shall spread?O'er each border and each bed,?And when joyous May shall come,?We'll deck the lofty pole at home.
Garlands gay in wreaths we'll twine,?That with brightest colours shine;?And dance around, till setting sun?Proclaims the children's day is done.
[Illustration: _to face pa. 16_
_The Gardeners_]
LITTLE GIRL.
Little girl, little girl, where are you going??Down in the meadow where cowslips are blowing.?Little girl, little girl, what to do there??To gather a garland to deck my brown hair.?Little girl, little girl, why all alone??My mother has sent me, and playmates I've none.?Then follow me, follow me, down to yon wood,?Where you shall find playmates both gentle and good;?We'll ask them, we'll ask them to join in your play,?And your mother shall give you a long holiday.?From Erin, from Erin, the cotter shall bring,?To twine a gay garland, her shamrock of spring;?In her plaid, in her plaid, Scotia's daughter shall come, With the thistle that grows on her mountains at home;?The peasant, the peasant of France shall be there,?And add to the chaplet his lily so fair;?Dark glancing, dark glancing, the daughter of Spain,?With the bloom of her orange shall join the gay train;?And leaving, and leaving his cold northern tides,?A plume from his eagle the Russian provides;?Whilst England, fair England, the wreath shall adorn,?With her rose-bud more bright than the blushes of morn. Then carol, then carol the sweet strains of peace,?And never again may her harmony cease;?May the dreams, may the dreams of ambition be o'er,?And the falchion of war be at rest evermore.
[Illustration: _to face pa. 19_
_Little Girl_]
THE BLIND BOY.
"Mamma, what a pretty new basket you've got,"?Little Emma exclaim'd with delight;?"The straw-work below is so firm and so neat,?And the bag such a beautiful white."
"I am glad you approve it, my love: I myself?Think it pretty and neat, I confess;?And when I have told you by whom it was made,?You will not, I think, like it the less.
"You remember, no doubt, that blind boy on the green,?Whose father and mother both died,?And left