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 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
130
Bonnie Wee Eric.
Bonnie wee Eric! I have sat beside the evening fire,
And listened to the leaping flame still darting keenly higher,
And all the while a lisping voice and eyes of sunny blue
Out-whispered the flame-whisper, and outshone the flicker too.
And listened to the leaping flame still darting keenly higher,
And all the while a lisping voice and eyes of sunny blue
Out-whispered the flame-whisper, and outshone the flicker too.
Bonnie wee Eric! To his home thoughts pleasantly return,
To long fair evenings in the land of ben and brae and burn;
Sweet northern words, so tunefully upon our Saxon flung,
As if a mountain breeze swept by where fairy bells are hung.
To long fair evenings in the land of ben and brae and burn;
Sweet northern words, so tunefully upon our Saxon flung,
As if a mountain breeze swept by where fairy bells are hung.
But sweeter than all fairy bells of quaint sweet minstrel tongue,
Rang out wee Eric's gentlest tone when o'er his cot I hung,
And told him in the sunset glow once more the old dear story
Of Him who walked the earth that we might walk with Him in glory.
Rang out wee Eric's gentlest tone when o'er his cot I hung,
And told him in the sunset glow once more the old dear story
Of Him who walked the earth that we might walk with Him in glory.
‘He loves the little children so;—does darling Eric love Him?’
I think the angels must have smiled a rainbow-smile above him,
Yet hardly brighter than his own, that lit the answer true,
‘Jesus, the kind good Jesus! Me do, oh yes, me do!’
I think the angels must have smiled a rainbow-smile above him,
Yet hardly brighter than his own, that lit the answer true,
‘Jesus, the kind good Jesus! Me do, oh yes, me do!’
131
Bonnie wee Eric! How the thought of heaven is full of joy,
And death has not a shadow for the merry healthful boy!
To hear about the happy home he gladly turns away
From picture books, or Noah's ark, or any game of play.
And death has not a shadow for the merry healthful boy!
To hear about the happy home he gladly turns away
From picture books, or Noah's ark, or any game of play.
‘Mamma, some day me die, and then the angels take me home
To Jesus, and me sing to Him;—Papa and you too come.’
So brightly said! ‘But, Eric, would you really like to die?’
She answered him; ‘then, darling, tell mamma the reason why?’
To Jesus, and me sing to Him;—Papa and you too come.’
So brightly said! ‘But, Eric, would you really like to die?’
She answered him; ‘then, darling, tell mamma the reason why?’
And then the sunny eyes looked up, and seemed at once to be
Filled with a happy solemn light, like sunrise on the sea;
He said—‘Yes, me would like to die, for me know where me going!’
What saint-like longing, baby lips! and oh! what blessèd knowing!
Filled with a happy solemn light, like sunrise on the sea;
He said—‘Yes, me would like to die, for me know where me going!’
What saint-like longing, baby lips! and oh! what blessèd knowing!
The lesson of the ‘little child’ is sweetly learnt from him;
No questioning, no anxious faith all tremulous and dim,
No drowsy love that hardly knows if it be love indeed;
Not ‘think’ or ‘hope,’ but—‘Oh me do,’—‘me know,’—his simple creed.
No questioning, no anxious faith all tremulous and dim,
No drowsy love that hardly knows if it be love indeed;
Not ‘think’ or ‘hope,’ but—‘Oh me do,’—‘me know,’—his simple creed.
Bonnie wee Eric! Hardly launched on this world's troubled sea,
We know the little bark is safe whate'er its course may be;
And short or long, or fair or rough, our hearts are glad in knowing
It will be onward, heavenward still, for he ‘knows where he's going.’
We know the little bark is safe whate'er its course may be;
And short or long, or fair or rough, our hearts are glad in knowing
It will be onward, heavenward still, for he ‘knows where he's going.’
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |