Lilliput Levee :: :: University of Virginia Library

They seized the keys, they patrolled the street,
They drove the policeman off his beat,
They built barricades, they stationed sentries—
You must give the word, when you come to the entries!

They dress'd themselves in the Riflemen's clothes,
They had pea-shooters, they had arrows and bows,
So as to put resistance down—
Order reigns in Lilliput-town!

They made the baker bake hot rolls,
They made the wharfinger send in coals,
They made the butcher kill the calf,
They cut the telegraph-wires in half.

They went to the chemist's, and with their feet
They kick'd the physic all down the street;
They went to the school-room and burnt the books,
They munched the puffs at the pastrycook's.

They sucked the jam, they lost the spoons,
They sent up several fire-balloons,
They let off crackers, they burnt a guy,
They piled a bonfire ever so high.

They offered a prize for the laziest boy,
And one for the most Magnificent toy,
They split or burnt the canes off-hand,
They made new laws in Lilliput-land.

Never do to-day what you can
Put off till to-morrow, one of them ran;
Late to bed and late to rise,
Was another law which they did devise.

Lilliput-land was a paradise
Of everything you can say that's nice!—
A magic lantern for all to see,
Rabbits to keep, and a Christmas-tree.

A boat, a house that went on wheels,
An organ to grind, and sherry at meals,
Drums and wheelbarrows, Roman candles,
Whips with whistles let into the handles.

A real live giant, a roc to fly,
A goat to tease, a copper to sky,
A garret of apples, a box of paints,
A saw and a hammer, and no complaints.

Nail up the door, slide down the stairs,
Saw off the legs of the parlour-chairs—
That was the way in Lilliput-land,
The Children having the upper hand.

They made the Old Folks come to school,
All in pinafores,—that was the rule,—
Made them say, Eena-deener-duss,
Kattler-wheeler-whiler-wuss;

They made them learn all sorts of things
That nobody liked. They had catechisings;
They kept them in, they sent them down
In class, in school, in Lilliput-town.

O but they gave them tit-for-tat!
Thick bread-and-butter, and all that;
Stick-jaw pudding that tires your chin
With the marmalade spread ever so thin!

They governed the clock in Lilliput-land,
They altered the hour or the minute-hand,
They made the day fast, they made the day slow,
Just as they wish'd the time to go.

They never waited for king or for cat;
They never wiped their shoes on the mat;
Their joy was great; their joy was greater;
They rode in the baby's perambulator!

There was a Levee in Lilliput-town,
At Pinafore Palace. Smith, and Brown,
Jones, and Robinson had to attend—
All to whom they cards did send.

Every one rode in a cab to the door;
Every one came in a pinafore;
Lady and gentleman, rat-tat-tat,
Loud knock, proud knock, opera hat!

The place was covered with silver and gold,
The place was as full as it ever could hold;
The ladies kissed her Majesty's hand;
Such was the custom in Lilliput-land.

His Majesty knighted eight or ten,
Perhaps a score, of the gentlemen,
Some of them short and some of them tall—
Arise, Sir What's-a-name What-do-you-call!

Nuts, and nutmeg (that's in the negus);
The bill of fare would perhaps fatigue us;
Forty-five fiddlers to play the fiddle;
Right foot, left foot, down the middle.

Conjuring tricks with the poker and tongs,
Riddles and Forfeits, singing of songs;
One fat man, too fat by far,
Tried “Twinkle, twinkle, little star!”

His voice was gruff, his pinafore tight,
His wife said, “Mind, dear, sing it right,”
But he forgot, and said Fa-la-la!
The Queen of Lilliput's own papa!

She frowned, and ordered him up to bed;
He said he was sorry; she shook her head;
His clean shirt-front with his tears was stained—
But discipline had to be maintained.

The Constitution! The Law! The Crown!
Order reigns in Lilliput-town!
The Queen is Jill, and the King is John;
I trust the Government will get on.

I noticed, being a man of rhymes,
An advertisement in the Lilliput Times:—
“Pinafore Palace. This is to state
That the Court is in want of a Laureate.

Nothing menial required.
Poets, willing to be hired,
May send in Specimens, at once,
Care of the Chamberlain Doubledunce.”

Said I to myself, here's a chance for me,
The Lilliput Laureate for to be!
And these are the Specimens I sent in
To Pinafore Palace. Shall I win?

[Public Notice.—This is to state]

Public Notice.—This is to state,
That these are the specimens left at the gate
Of Pinafore Palace, exact to date,
In the hands of the porter, Curlypate,
Who sits in his plush on a chair of state,
By the gentleman who is a candidate
For the office of Lilliput Laureate.

Christmas, 1864.

STALKY JACK.

I knew a boy who took long walks,
Who lived on beans and ate the stalks;
To the Giant's Country he lost his way;
They kept him there for a year and a day,
But he has not been the same boy since;
An alteration he did evince;
For you may suppose that he underwent
A change in his notions of extent!

He looks with contempt on a nice high door,
And tries to walk in at the second floor;
He stares with surprise at a basin of soup,
He fancies a bowl as large as a hoop;
He calls the people minikin mites;
He calls a sirloin a couple of bites!
Things having come to these pretty passes,
They bought him some magnifying glasses.

He put on the goggles, and said, “My eyes!
The world has come to its proper size!”
But all the boys cry, “Stalky John!
There you go with your goggles on!”
What girl would marry him—and quite right—
To be taken for three times her proper height?
So this comes of taking extravagant walks,
And living on beans, and eating the stalks!

THE BOY THAT LOVES A BABY.

Good morrow, Little Stranger,
Good morrow, Baby dear!
Good morrow, too, Mrs. Grainger,
And what do you do here?
With your boxes, caps, and cap-strings,
Drowsy, hazard-hap things,
And love of good cheer?

I'm a little boy that goes, ma'am,
Straight to the point;
You said that my nose, ma'am,
Would soon be out of joint;
But my nose keeps its place, ma'am—
The middle of my face, ma'am;
It is a nose of grace, ma'am—
Aroint thee, aroint!

Good morrow, Little Stranger,
A girl, or a boy?
Good morrow, Mrs. Grainger—
Where are you, ma'am, ahoy!
Here's all things in their proper place,
And people likewise,
The laundry-maid in the copper-place,
The skylark in the skies!
Here's love for Mamma,
And love for Papa;
Here's a penny for a scavenger,
And a bag for the blooming lavender,
And a rope for Don't Care,
And a kiss for the little baby,
And one for a pretty lady
With a diamond in her hair!

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS, THE CRADLE WILL ROCK!

A miserly couple lived by the sea-shore;
Their motto was Much, their motto was More;
They had gold in a gallipot under the floor.

The place where the house stood was wild; it was lone,
It was cold, it was grey, it was thistle and stone;
This miserly couple were all skin and bone.

A traveller came tapping; they showed him to bed;
They crept up at midnight, they smashed in his head,
They stole all his guineas with hands gory-red.

They murdered a pedlar, with only a pack;
The bodies they threw down a well at the back;
Splash, gurgle; the thistles closed over, all black.

There once was a ship wrecked in sight of this shore;
They heard the wind rave, they heard the sea roar,
They heard guns of distress, this old pair at their door.

What is it the waves bear along to the land?
A babe in a cradle! Oh, who can withstand
Its little blue eye, and its lily-white hand?

A beautiful cradle; and what have we here?
A diamonded brooch on a shawl of Cashmere;
The pillows are costly, and all the babe-gear!

This miserly couple, the man and his hag,
Took up the drenched babe, and stripped off every rag,
And put all the cradle-gear into a bag.

They flung the child into the water away;
They took up the cradle; you hear the hag say,
“Oh ho, here is firewood for many a day!”

“Nay, dame,” says the husband, “for fuel is cheap;
Perhaps it may pay us, the cradle to keep;
We can swear that the child had been drowned in its sleep!

Some uncle, some lawyer, may give us a pound,
For saying the cradle was all that we found”—
“Ah ha!” says the hag, “you are wrong, I'll be bound!”

They emptied the cradle, they hid it away;
But that very night, was a-year-and-a-day,
The sailor at sea could not hear himself pray,

The storm blew so loud! What, what do they hear,
This couple, that makes their bones rattle with fear?
The rock of a cradle, a child crying near!

“But how can it be, dame? our wits are beguiled!”
—The rock of the cradle, the voice of the child,
They hear them again, though the wind is so wild!

Rock, rock, 'tis the cradle! Loud thunders the storm!
“Oh, hush-thee-by-baby, lie still, and lie warm!”
Who sings to the child, then? what name, and what form?

Rock, rock; hark, the babe cries! What thoughts are this hag's?
She curses her husband; he clutches his bags:
Without, the red storm rends the rain-cloud to rags!

She threw up her arms, he fell down on his knee;
They went raving-mad, they rushed into the sea!
—By the Murder-Hole still the black thistles grow free!

LITTLE CHRISTEL.

I.

Slowly forth from the village church,—
The voice of the choristers hushed overhead,—
Came little Christel. 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?”

II.

Now she entered the village street,
With book in hand and face demure,
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 its round red cheeks in vain,
One sail stuck 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 Christel 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!”

III.

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 and faint with the 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.

“O happy brook!” thought little Christel,
“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.

IV.

But she saw, as she walked by the side of the brook,
Some great rough stones that troubled its course,
And the gurgling water seemed to say, “Look!
I struggle, and tumble, and murmur hoarse!

How these stones obstruct my road!
How I wish they were off and gone!
Then I would flow as once I flowed,
Singing in silvery undertone.”

Then little Christel, as light as a bird,
Put off the shoes from her young white feet;
She moves two stones, she comes to the third,
The brook already sings “Thanks! sweet! sweet!”

O then she hears the lark in the skies,
And thinks, “What is it to God he says?”—
And she stumbles and falls, and cannot rise,
For the water stifles her downward face.

The little brook flows on as before,
The little lark sings with as sweet a sound,
The little babe crows at the cottage door,
And the red rose blooms, but Christel lies drowned!

V.

Come in softly, this is the room;
Is not that an innocent face?
Yes, those flowers give a faint perfume—
Think, child, of heaven, and Our Lord his grace.

Three at the right and three at the left,
Two at the feet, and two at the head,
The tapers burn. The friends bereft
Have cried till their eyes are swollen and red.

Who would have thought it when little Christel
Pondered on what the preacher had told?
But the good wise God does all things well,
And the fair young creature lies dead and cold!

VI.

Then a little stream crept into the place,
And rippled up to the coffin's side,
And touched the corpse on its pale round face,
And kissed the eyes till they trembled wide:

Saying, “I am a river of joy from heaven,
You helped the brook, and I help you;
I sprinkle your brows with life-drops seven;
I bathe your eyes with healing dew.”

Then a rose-branch in through the window came,
And coloured her cheeks and lips with red;
“I remember, and Heaven does the same,”
Was all that the faithful rose-branch said.

Then a bright small form to her cold neck clung,
It breathed on her till her breast did fill,
Saying “I am a cherub fond and young,
And I saw who breathed on the baby's mill.”

Then little Christel sat up and smiled,
And said, “Who put these flowers in my hand?”
And rubbed her eyes, poor innocent child,
Not being able to understand.

VII.

But soon she heard the big bell of the church
Give the hour, which made her say,
“Ah, I have slept and dreamt in the porch,
It is a very drowsy day.”

HAROLD AND ALICE:

OR THE REFORMED GIANT.

I.

The Giant sat on a rock up high,
With the wind in his shaggy hair;
And he said—“I have drained the dairies dry,
And stripped the orchards bare;

“I have eaten the sheep, with the wool on their backs,”
(A nasty giant was he,)
“The eggs and the shells, the honey, the wax,
The fowls, and the cock-turkéy;

“And now I think I could eat a score
Of babies so plump and small;
And if, after that, I should want any more,
Their brothers and sisters, and all.

“To-morrow I'll do it. Ha! what was that?”
Said he, for a sound he heard;
“Was it fluttering owl, or pattering rat,
Or bough to the breeze that stirred?”

Oh, it was neither rat nor owl,
Giant! nor shaking leaf;
Young Harold has heard your scheme so foul,
And it may come to grief!

One thing which you ate has escaped your mind,—
Young Harold his guinea-pig dear;
And he has crept up, to try and find
His pet, and he shakes with fear;

He has hid himself in a corner, you know,
To listen and look about;
And if to the village to-morrow you go,
You may find the babes gone out!

II.

Now, when to the village came Harold back
And told his tale so wild,
Then every mother she cried “Good lack!
My child! preserve my child!”

And every father took his sword,
And sharpened it on a stone;
But little Harold said never a word,
Having a plan of his own.

He laid six harrows outside the stile
That led to the village green,
Then on them a little hay did pile,
For the prongs not to be seen.

A toothsome sucking-pig he slew,
And thereby did it lay;
For why? Because young Harold knew
The Giant would pass that way.

Then he went in and said his prayers,—
Not to lie down to sleep;
But at his window up the stairs
A watch all night did keep,

'Till the little stars all went pale to bed,
Because the sun was out,
And the sky in the east grew dapple-red,
And the little birds chirped about.

III.

Now, all the village was early awake,
And, with short space to pray,
Their preparations they did make,
To bear the babes away.

The horses were being buckled in,—
The little ones looked for a ride,—
When on came the Giant, as ugly as Sin
With a terrible six-yard stride.

Then every woman and every child
To scream aloud began;
Young Harold up at his watch-tower smiled,
And his sword drew every man;

For now the Giant, fierce and big,
Came near to the stile by the green,
But when he saw that luscious pig
He smacked his lips I ween!

Now, left foot, right foot, step it again,
He trod on—the harrow spikes;
And how he raged and roared with pain
He may describe who likes!

At last he fell, and as he lay
Loud bellowing on the ground,
The stalwart men of the village, they
With drawn swords danced around.

“O spare my life, I you entreat!
I will be a Giant good!
O take out those thorns that prick my feet,
Which now are bathed in blood!”

Then the little village maids did feel
For this Giant so shaggy-haired,
And to their parents they did kneel,
Saying, “Let his life be spared!”

His bleeding wounds the maids did bind;
They framed a litter strong
With all the hurdles they could find;
Six horses drew him along;

And all the way to his castle rude,
Up high in the piny rocks,
He promised to be a Giant good—
The cruel, crafty fox!

IV.

“O mother, lend me your largest tub!”—
“Why, daughter? tell me quick!”—
“O mother, to make a syllabub
For the Giant who is so sick.”

Now in fever-fit the Giant lay,
From the pain in his wounded feet,
And hoping soon would come the day
When he might the babies eat.

“O mother, dress me in white, I beg,
With flowers and pretty gear!
For Mary and Madge, and Jess and Peg,
And all my playmates dear,

“We go to the Giant's this afternoon,
To carry him something nice,—
A custard three times as big as the moon,
With sugar and wine and spice.”

“O daughter, your father shall go with you;
Suppose the Giant is well,
And eats you up, what shall we do?”
Then her thought did Alice tell:—

“No, mother dear; we go alone,
And Heaven for us will care:
If the Giant bad has a heart of stone,
We will soften it with prayer!”

Now, when the Giant saw these maids,
Drest all in white, draw near,
He twitched his monstrous shoulder-blades,
And dropped an honest tear!

“Dear Giant, a syllabub nice we bring,
Pray let us tuck you in!”
The Giant said, “Sweet innocent thing!
Oh, I am a lump of sin!

“Go home, and say to the man of prayer,
To make the church-door wide,
For I next Sunday will be there,
And kneel, dears, at your side.

“Tell brave young Harold I forgive
Him for the harrow-spikes;
And I will do, please Heaven I live,
The penance the prayer-man likes.

“Set down, my dears, the syllabub,
And as I better feel,
I'll try and eat a fox's cub
At my next mid-day meal:

“And all my life the village I'll keep
From harmful vermin free;
But never more will eat up the sheep,
The honey, or cock-turkéy!”

V.

Now Sunday came, and in the aisle
Did kneel the Giant tall;
The priest could not forbear a smile,
The church it looked so small!

And, as the Giant walked away,
He knocked off the roof with his head;
But he quarried stones on the following day,
To build another instead.

And it was high and broad and long,
And a hundred years it stood,
To tell of the Giant so cruel and strong
That kindness had made good.

And when Harold and Alice were married there,
A handsome sight was seen;
For the bridegroom was brave, and the bride was fair—
Long live our gracious Queen!

THE CHRIST-CROWN.

I.

“His neck droops on the rude cross-bough,
The blood falls fast and red;
A crown of flowers to soothe his brow!”
The little maiden said.

“O flowers, He must not bleed and faint,
Unhelped, who made you all;
It is the Christ whose fingers paint
The rose and the lily tall.

“O lily, and rose, and tulip gay,
That shine in the garden-bed,
Weave me a crown this Sabbath-day
For the Christ with the drooping head!”

Then tulip, rose, and lily white
Made answer with one accord,
“Here stand we all in the morning-light,
And bloom to praise the Lord;

But we are heavy, and large, and bold;
The field-flowers keep the dew;
The field-flowers light, and small, and cold,
Shall weave a crown for you.”

So into the greenwood the maiden went
While the morning mist was grey;
But soon the low, cool hours were spent,
And it was high, hot day;
And, roaming wide in wonderment,
She missed her weary way:

And through the rifts between the bowers
The great sun scorched her head,
As she went filling her lap with flowers,
Purple, and white, and red.

Then, hungry and tired, by a beech-tree broad,
On the grass she sank and slept,
While ugly woodland creatures, awed,
A humble distance kept.

For the turtle-dove guessed why she came,
And told it from her bough—
“Snakes, lizards, and snails, avoid, for shame!
This maid, wide-wandering without blame,
Seeks flowers for her Saviour's brow.”

So sped the blazing afternoon,
The maid still sleeping there,
Till her face was white in the light of the moon,
And the dew lay on her hair.

For the goblins grey of the dusk wood-bowers
Heard what the nightingale sang—
“Let her sleep, undreaming, a few more hours;
This is the maid who came for flowers
On her Saviour's brow to hang.”

Then the goblins grey of the dusk wood-bowers
Came trooping tenderly,
And plaited into a crown the flowers
That lay on the maiden's knee;

And beckoned a band of fairies fair,
Who, with many an artful stroke,
Looped up and smoothed her golden hair
All round, against she woke,

And filled their palms with brier-rose dew,
And softly bathed her face.
Sweet child! all creatures wait on you,
Through our dear Lord his grace.

II.

O crisply stirred the cool dawn breeze,
And shook the acorns down;
O what comes crashing through the trees?
It is a stag so brown.

It was an antlered stag so brown
Came, bright-eyed, through the wood,
And, ready to bear her to the town,
Before the maiden stood.

Now kneel, good stag, for she smiles and wakes,
And let her mount thy side;
The morning breaks, the greenwood shakes,
Dear stag, to thy step of pride!

The maiden held her garland fast,
So light, so cool with dew,
And by-and-by the town at last,
With the good church, came in view.

The stag passed proudly up the street,
The folk were forth for prayers:
“This antlered creature, brown and fleet,
A maid with a garland bears!”

The stag came softly nigh the church,
The folk stood mazed to see;
The stag stopped conscious at the porch,
And sank upon his knee.

Down stepped the maid, and a prayer she prayed,
And kissed his forehead mild;
Then up the aisle, with footstep staid,
Passed meekly the fair child

To where her Saviour's image stood,
The folk all wondering round;
Upon the forehead red with blood
The garland cool she bound;
The stag fled fleetly to the wood,
And never more was found.

THE BEWITCHED TOYS;

OR, QUEEN MAB IN CHILD-WORLD.

I.

Here comes Queen Mab in her coach-and-six!
Look out for mischievous fairy tricks!
Look out, good girls! Look out, brave boys!
I know she comes to bewitch your toys!
Hither she floats, like the down of a thistle!—
So mind the peg-top; and mind the hoop;
Bring down the kite with a sudden swoop;
Hide the pop-gun; and plug up the whistle;
But don't say Dolly's a-bed with the croup:
For, if you tell her a fib, my dear,
She'll fasten the door-key to your ear!

II.

Then the Kite went flying up to the Moon,
And the Man with the Sticks, who lives up there,
Kick'd it through with his clouted shoon,
And the tail hung dangling down in the air.

But Harry wouldn't let go the string,
Although it nearly broke with the strain;
Said he: “Well, this is a comical thing,
But the kite is mine, and I'll have it again!”

“Now whistle three times,” cried cunning Nell,
“And over your shoulder throw your shoe,
And pull once more, and say this spell:
Fustumfunnidostantaraboo!”

But Harry made a mistake in the charm,
Saying, “Fustumfunnidostantaboorack!”
And a dreadful pain went all up his arm,
And he fell down, shouting, right on his back.

Then Nell took hold, and pulled the string,
And the kite came down, all safe and sound;
But a piece of the moon it away did bring,
Which you may have for a silver pound!

III.

Said Thomas, with the round straw hat,
“My pop-gun bring to me,
And hey! to shoot the Tabby Cat
Up in the Cherry-tree!

“Last night she stole my supper all,
She must be better taught;
And I shall make her caterwaul
‘I'm sorry,’ as she ought.”

Then Thomas, taking hasty aim
At Tabby on the bough,
Hit Tabby's mistress, an old Dame
Who had a Brindled Cow.

The Brindled Cow could not abide
To see her mistress struck,
And after trembling Thomas hied,—
Said he, “It's just my luck.”

She tossed him once, she tossed him twice,
When Tabby at her flew,
Saying, “Tom, your custard was so nice
That I will fight for you.”

The old Dame flung the pellet back,
And, when Tom picked it up,
He cried, “The pellet has turned, good lack!
To a custard in a cup!”

And so it had! The Brindled Cow,
The Dame, and Tabby Cat
Were much surprised. “It's strange, I vow,”
Said Tom in the round hat.

But nothing came amiss to him;
He ate the custard clean—
There was a brown mark round the rim
To show where it had been.

IV.

“Pegtop, pegtop—fast asleep!
Pray, how long do you mean to keep
Humming and droning and spinning away?
Do you mean to keep on all day?
Ten minutes have passed since your nap was begun;
Pegtop, when will your nap be done?

“Forty winks, forty, and forty more!
You never slept so long before;

This is a pretty sleep to take!
Boxer, Boxer, yawn and wake!”

Then said Marian, “Never fear;
Dolly's night-cap, Richard dear,
Put on Boxer—perhaps he thinks
He would like forty times forty winks!”

Three o'clock, four o'clock, all day long,
Richard's pegtop hummed so strong,
Hummed away and would not stop—
Dick had to buy another top!
For though this Boxer was certainly clever,
Who wants a pegtop to hum for ever?

All the Queen's horses and all the Queen's men
Couldn't get Boxer to wake again;
They made him a house, and put him in;
The people came to see Boxer spin;
“A penny a-piece,” said Dick, “and cheap,
To see my Pegtop's wonderful sleep!”

V.

Katy had quarrelled and would not speak
To Cousin John,

Who, trying to kiss her on the cheek,
With her bonnet on,
Had crumpled her bonnet at the border,
And put the trimming in disorder.

“Pray let me kiss you, Katy dear,”
Said John so gay;
“Now, Master John,” said Kate severe,
“Please get away!
And if you don't, I only hope
You'll get hit with my skipping-rope!”

Skip, skip
Never trip;
Round and round!
“Does it touch the ground?
Don't I skip well?” said sulky Kate;
But, oh, at last
Her feet stuck fast—
Her pretty feet,
So small and neat,
Were glued by magic to the skipping-cord,
Which turned into a Swing! And then my lord
Johnny said, “This is fine, upon my word!”

Backwards and forwards Katy swung;—
To the magic rope, which by nothing hung,
Frightened out of her breath she clung—
An apple for the Queen, and a pear for the King!
Wasn't that a wonderful swing?
It kept on going like anything!

“John!” said Katy, turning faint,
And the colour of white paint,
“Save me from this dreadful swing!”
Then our Johnny made a spring
Up to Kate, and held her tight,
And kissed her twice, with all his might,
Which stopped the magic swing; and Katy then,
Said “Thank you, Jack!” and kissed him back again.

VI.

Then the Children all said, “She spoils our play:
We must really get Queen Mab away;
She musn't bewitch our Toys too much.
Who will speak to her? Does she talk Dutch?
John knows Magic, and Greek, and such;
No one than John can be cleverer—
Perhaps he knows how to get rid of Her!”

VII.

Six White Mice, with harness on,
What do you think of Cousin John,
Who taught them so,
And made them go?—
Six white mice, with harness on!

A wee coach, gilt like the Lord Mayor's own!
Made by Cousin John alone,
Bright and gay,—
On a Lord Mayor's day
Just such a coach is the Lord Mayor's own!

Marian's Doll come out for a ride,
Dressed like a queen in pomp and pride:
The six wee mice,
That trot so nice,
Draw Marian's Doll come out for a ride!

Every mouse had a silver bell
Round its neck, as I've heard tell;
Tinkle tink!—
But who would think
Of a harnessed mouse, with a silver bell?

“What can six white mice intend?”
Thought Queen Mab, with her hair on end—
“And silver bells,
And what-not else—
What can six white mice intend?

“When was such a procession seen?
It frightens me, as I'm a Queen!”
So she stopped her tricks,
And her coach and six
Drove away with the Fairy Queen.

CUCKOO IN THE PEAR-TREE.

The Cuckoo sat in the old pear-tree.
Cuckoo!
Raining or snowing, naught cared he.
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, naught cared he.

The Cuckoo flew over a housetop nigh.
Cuckoo!
“Dear, are you at home, for here am I?
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, here am I.”

“I dare not open the door to you.
Cuckoo!
Perhaps you are not the right cuckoo?
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, the right Cuckoo.”

“I am the right Cuckoo, the proper one.
Cuckoo!
For I am my father's only son,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, his only son.”

“If you are your father's only son—
Cuckoo!
The bobbin pull tightly,
Come through the door lightly—
Cuckoo!

If you are your father's only son—
Cuckoo!
It must be you, the only one—
Cuckoo, cuckoo, my own Cuckoo!
Cuckoo!”

PENITENT ALFRED.

It is Christmas Eve, and a stormy night,
The wind is loud, and the snow lies white,
And little Alfred has sulked to bed,
And these are the thoughts that pass through his head:—

“I wish I was good, but I know I am bad:
O the wind, whistle-whew!
I make father angry, and mother sad—
Just then how it blew!
My heart was heavy and hard to-night,
I crept to bed.
I could not say what was soft and right,
I wished I was dead!
But I see, with my eyes shut beneath the clothes—
It is dark and cold—
I see such sights as nobody knows
And nobody's told.
I see a red robin up in a tree,
Sing, sing!

And a shipwrecked boy on a raft at sea,
Cling, cling!
I see our Rover jumping the brook,
Swift and light;
I see a new moon, like a reaping-hook,
Sharp and white.
I see the churchyard; the snow lies deep;
For ghosts who cares?
If I were to die to-night in my sleep!—
I'll say my prayers.
I see a grand funeral—there's the hearse,
Black as a coal;
If I could remember a hymn, or a verse—
Toll, toll!
Perhaps to-morrow I may be good—
Christmas Day;
But I am too small to be understood,
Whatever I say.
If mother would come up and kiss me once—
Was that the bed broke?
No, I dropped asleep. But I won't be a dunce—
I thought some one spoke?—

Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on;
Four curtains to my bed,
Four angels—Our Father, &c.”

Poor little Alfred! when morning comes,
And the bells say, “Citron, and spice, and plums!”
Pray he may find that the angels four
Have carried his hard heart out at the door,
And left underneath his soft pink side,
A heart that is softer, and free from pride!

THE PARABLE OF PETER AND THE CHERRIES.

Toward Jericho, at morning-tide,
Went Christ the Lord, with disciples three;
Peter, who walked by the Master's side,
Said, “Lord, what would I not do for Thee?”

And of many things the Master talked,
While the sun rose higher, and higher yet,
Till it came to pass, as forth they walked,
And came to the road at Olivet,

That Jesus saw a horse's shoe,
In Peter's path, upon the way,
And bade him (what would not Peter do?)
Take up the horseshoe from where it lay.

But he would not stoop for a thing so small,
Gem nor jewel, silver nor gold!
So He stooped for it, who is Lord of All,
And hid it close in his garment's fold.

And the Lord in the village exchanged the shoe
For a measure of cherries ripe and red,
And gathered them up in his garment too,
As forth from the village now they sped.

And still, as the sun rose high and higher,
Stonier and steeper grew the way,
Where the tall white rocks flung back the fire,
On the travellers' heads, of the fierce noonday.

And they were weary, the travellers four,
Of the dusty road, and the heat and thirst,
And Peter, the bold, who thirsted sore,
Walked slow behind, and Jesus first.

Then our loving Lord,—who is Lord of all,
Who hungered and thirsted for our sake,
Who bears with the froward, stoops to the small,
And shuns the bruised reed to break,—

Dropped, one by one, in Peter's way,
The little red cherries, cool and moist,
And Peter stooped to them where they lay,
And ate them; and his heart rejoiced.

Then Jesus said, with a smile in his eyes,
“To little things he who will not bend,
Perhaps to matters of smaller size,—
Nor silver nor gold; nor jewel-prize,—
May learn to stoop down before the end.”

JACK ABROAD, AND JILL AT HOME.

If my Treasure you should see,
Say her loved one greets her!
“How does he get on?” says she—
Say, upon my feet, sir!

“Is he ill?” Say, dead am I!
But tell her, when, for sorrow,
She, poor thing, begins to cry,
That I'll come home to-morrow!

CUCKOO'S PALACE.

Oh, the Cuckoo, he is a royal bird,
To have seven queens (which seems absurd)!
One cleans his parlour with mop and broom;
The second one carries the pail from the room;
The third with a napkin wipes his plate;
The fourth brings his bread and his wine in state;
The fifth stands by to plenish his cup,
The sixth she carries the coal-pan up
At night, to make the sheets feel warm;
The seventh she sleeps with her head on his arm.

THE LITTLE BROTHER.

Little brother in a cot,
Baby, baby!
Shall he have a pleasant lot?
May be, may be!

Little brother's in a nap,
Baby, baby!
Bless his tiny little cap,
Noise far away be!

With a rattle in his hand,
Baby, baby!
Dreaming—who can understand
Dreams like his, what they be?

When he wakes kiss him twice,
Then talk and gay be;
Little cheeks, soft and nice,
Baby, baby!

Pretty little pouting boy,
Baby, baby!
Let his life, with sweet and toy,
Pleasure all and play be.

Seven white angels watching here,
Baby, baby!
Pray be kind to baby dear,
Pray be, pray be!

Little brother in a cot,
Baby, baby!
His shall be a pleasant lot—
Must, not may be!

JUAN DE PAREJA, THE FAITHFUL COLOUR-GRINDER OF VELASQUEZ.

I.

“I clean the brushes, the colours I grind,
Prepare the palettes, the studio sweep;
When my master paints, I stand behind,
And I paint, myself, when he is asleep.

I study the trees, the houses, the men,
The rocks, the rivers, and skies so blue;
I am a painter's slave,—what then?
I mean to be a painter too!”

So thought the slave one busy day,
As nigh Velasquez' chair he stood;
The master said, as he turned that way,
“Juan, my colour-grinder good,

There was never, in all the land,
Such a servant, boy, as you,
Swift of thought and steady of hand,
Ready of will, and always true.”

II.

Time, incessant, rolled away,
For master and slave alike it rolled,
To-morrow glided into to-day,
And the new year soon became the old.

And Juan, who held his secret dear,
As a man with a will is apt to do,
Went with his master far and near,
And painted on, while no one knew.

Twice he went to Italy,
Growing in years, and wit, and skill,
And one day he said, “The King shall see,—
To-morrow, to-morrow, I think I will!

I will turn my picture, face to the wall,
That whosoever shall pass thereby,
Will say, ‘What may you this picture call,
Which stands so bashfully all awry?’”

III.

Philip the Fourth, King of Spain,
Came to the painter's studio,
Walked up the room and down again,
Seeing the pictures all of a row.

But, oh, what moments the slave endures
As King Philip turns his picture round;
“Velasquez mine, this is not yours?”—
Then down sank Juan, his knees on the ground,

And told his tale, till, wondering,
Philip said, “Painters should be free!”
And Juan kissed the hand of the King,
And rose, a freeman, from his knee.

IV.

Scholar now, a slave no more,
While his master lived, he stayed at his side,
Then served the daughter, a few years more,
Faithfully, kindly, till he died.

And this is the story, true as truth,
Of Juan, the colour-grinder brave,
Who kept, through a humble and toilsome youth,
A heart that controlled the lot of a slave!

THE CRICKET IN THE CREVICE.

I

It was an oldwife in Buckinghamshire,
She gossiped with Madge by a blazing fire,
While the Cricket sang loud and clear;
His chirrup was glad, his chirrup was strong,
But the spiteful oldwife she misliked the song,
As it beat on the drum of her ear.

II

‘O ho, Master Cricket!’ quoth she, ‘I trow
'Tis in vain that I speak while ye chirrup so,
And Madge heareth naught that I say;
I would ye might silence your horrible croak!’
But the Cricket struck up a new tune as she spoke—
For why? 'twas his sister's birth-day.

III

So he sang out as loud and as clear as a bell,
While the oldwife was fain her gossip to tell,
When the Kettle chimed merrily in;
And, as loud waxed the harmony made by them both,
The baffled old gossip, in terrible wrath,
Resolved on a terrible sin!

IV

She peered down the crevice, with spectacled face,
That led to Cricket his hiding place;
The old church clock struck One!
She lifts the great kettle aloft in the air;
Down flows the hot stream—he was scalded there,
The song of poor Cricket was done!

V

Right glad was our gossip, whose clack was free,
And to Madge she finished her history,
Triúmphing o'er Cricket his end;
But Heaven above, with an angry eye,
Had seen the innocent creature die,
And a punishment soon did send.

VI

Next day she was talking, as she did use,
To Madge, and a-sudden, while telling the news,
‘Lackaday! I'm struck deaf!’ she cried—
So she was; and she lived and died deaf as a post,
Save every night, when Cricket his Ghost
Came chirping to her bedside!

Good children all, from this history,
Learn that kind Heaven delights to see
Its creatures great and small
Live happy, and punishes whoso deprives
Even chirruping crickets of innocent lives
For no good reason at all.

THE DISCONTENTED YEW-TREE.

A dark-green prickly yew one night
Peeped round on the trees of the forest,
And said, ‘Their leaves are smooth and bright,
My lot is the worst and poorest:

I wish I had golden leaves,’ said the yew;
And lo, when the morning came,
He found his wish had come suddenly true,
For his branches were all aflame.

Now, by came a Jew, with a bag on his back,
Who cried, ‘I'll be rich to-day!’
He stripped the boughs, and, filling his sack
With the yellow leaves, walked away!

The yew was as vexed as a tree could be,
And grieved, as a yew-tree grieves,
And sighed, ‘If Heaven would but pity me,
And grant me crystal leaves!’

Then crystal leaves crept over the boughs;
Said the yew, ‘Now am I not gay?’
But a hailstorm hurricane soon arose
And broke every leaf away!

So he mended his wish yet once again,—
‘Of my pride I do now repent;
Give me fresh green leaves, quite smooth and plain,
And I will be content.’

In the morning he woke in smooth green leaf,
Saying, ‘This is a sensible plan;
The storm will not bring my beauty to grief,
Or the greediness of man.’

But the world has goats as well as men,
And one came snuffing past,
Which ate of the green leaves a million and ten,
Not having broken his fast.

O then the yew-tree groaned aloud,
‘What folly was mine, alack!
I was discontented, and I was proud—
O give me my old leaves back!’

So, when daylight broke, he was dark, dark green,
And prickly as before!—
The other trees mocked, ‘Such a sight to be seen!
To be near him makes one sore!’
But soft winds whispered his leaves between,
‘Be thankful, and change no more!’

PUZZLES.

I once saw an angel on a white cloud;
He looked at me, and I spoke out loud;
The moment I spoke, he went away,
And the cloud broke up into spots of grey.

Angel, angel, on a white cloud!
What was it I meant when I spoke out loud?
Was it a something, or was it a naught?
It seemed to be spoken before it was thought!
It fled like a bird that can never be caught!

I once heard a bell ring, sweet and loud;
It rang overhead up in a white cloud;
It rang up and down, it rang all the world round;
It told me the word I had lost should be found
At the place where the blue sky touches the ground!

There once was a giant, the giant was tall,
He stood on a steeple, he threw up a ball;
The steeple was lofty; the ball went so high,
That it never came down again out of the sky!

Here comes Ellen, majestic miss!
You look so wise, madam, tell me this:—
What was the word that I spoke out loud
To the angel I saw, up on a white cloud?
How long may the very tall giant complain,
Before he gets back his ball again?
Who is it rings the wonderful bell,
Up in the clouds, you majestic Nell?

It's open your eyes, and blink three times;
It's riddle-my-rede, and repeat the rhymes;
The path of the ball; the heavenly chimes;
And the word that I try for a million times!

Oh, Little Majesty, if we had wings,
We would discover these wonderful things!
A raven to pluck, and a peacock's feather—
Let us make wings, and be off together!

THE PENANCE OF THE LITTLE MAID.

I met a fair maiden, I saw her plain,
In the five-acre when the corn was mellow,
Counting her fingers again and again,
Her kirtle was green, her hair was yellow.

“Oh, what are you counting, fair maid?” said I,
“Counting, I will be bound, your treasures?”
“Oh no, kind sir,” she made sad reply,
“Counting, for penance, my unshared pleasures.”

Her head was bent low, and slowly went she;
If she goes on straight, she must come to the sea!

Blow, blow, south wind, the year's on the turn;
Creep, little blue-bell, close under the fern!
I hope that the penance the little maid is doing
Will be finished before winter comes with rattle, rain, and ruin?

“Oh yes, kind sir, my penance will be over,”
(She told me in a dream last night, I know it will come true,)
“Come and look for me next summer, when the bee is in the clover,
And I will share my pleasures then with you, you, you!”

PRINCE PHILIBERT.

Oh, who loves Prince Philibert?
Who but myself?
His foot's in the stirrup;
His book's on the shelf;
His dapple-grey Dobbin
Attends to his whip,
And rocks up and down
On the floor like a ship.

I went to the pond with him,
Just like the sea,
To swim his three-decker,
That's named after me;
His cheeks were like roses;
He knew all the rocks;
He looks like a sailor
In grey knickerbocks.

Oh, where is the keepsake
I gave you, my prince?
I keep yours in a drawer
That smells of a quince;
So how can I lose it?
But you, giddy thing!
Keep mine in your pocket,
Mix'd up with some string.

Remember the riddle
I told you last week!
And how I forgave you
That scratch on the cheek!
You could not have helped it,
You never would strike,
Intending to do it,
The girl that you like!

You call me Miss Stupid,
You call me Miss Prue;
But how do you like me
In crimson and blue?
We go partners in findings,
And money, and that,
You help me in ciphering;
Look at my hat!

I love you, Prince Philibert!
Who, but myself?
With your foot in the stirrup,
Your book on the shelf!
We call you a prince, John,
But, oh, when you crack
The nuts we go halves in,
You're my Filbert Jack!

THE RISING, WATCHING MOON.

Ah, the moon is watching me!
Red, and round as round can be,
Over the house and the top of the tree
Rising slowly. We shall see
Something happen very soon;—
Hide me from the dreadful moon!

Slowly, surely, rising higher,
Soon she will be as high as the spire!
It seems as if something must happen then
To all the world, and all the men!
Oh, I dare not think, for I am not wise—
I must look away, I must shut my eyes!

THE SHIP THAT SAILED INTO THE SUN.

They said my brother's ship went down,
Down into the sea,
Because a storm came on to drown
The biggest ships that be;
But I saw the ship, when he went away;
I saw it pass, and pass;
The tide was low, I went out to play,
The sea was all like glass;
The ship sailed straight into the sun,
Half of a ball of gold—
Onward it went till it touched the sun—
I saw the ship take hold!

But soon I saw them both no more,
The sun and the ship together,
For the wind began to hoot and to roar,
And there was stormy weather.

Yet every day the golden ball
Rests on the edge of the sky;
The sun it is, with the ship and all,
For the ship sailed into the golden ball
Across the edge of the sky.

TOPSYTURVEY-WORLD.

If the butterfly courted the bee,
And the owl the porcupine;
If churches were built in the sea,
And three times one was nine;
If the pony rode his master,
If the buttercups ate the cows,
If the cat had the dire disaster
To be worried, sir, by the mouse;
If mamma, sir, sold the baby
To a gipsy for half-a-crown;
If a gentleman, sir, was a lady,—
The world would be Upside-Down!
If any or all of these wonders
Should ever come about,
I should not consider them blunders,
For I should be Inside-Out!

(Chorus.)

Ba-ba, black wool,
Have you any sheep?
Yes, sir, a pack-full,
Creep, mouse, creep!
Four-and-twenty little maids
Hanging out the pie,
Out jumped the honey-pot,
Guy-Fawkes, Guy!
Cross-latch, cross-latch,
Sit and spin the fire,
When the pie was opened,
The bird was on the brier!

THE RACE OF THE FLOWERS.

The trees and the flowers seem running a race,
But none treads down the other;
And neither thinks it his disgrace
To be later than his brother.
Yet the pear-tree shouts to the lilac-tree,
“Make haste, for the Spring is late!”
And the lilac-tree whispers to the chestnut-tree
(Because he is so great),
“Pray you, great sir, be quick, be quick,
For down below we are blossoming thick!”

Then the chestnut hears, and comes out in bloom,
White, or pink, to the tip-top boughs—
Oh, why not grow higher, there's plenty of room,
You beautiful tree, with the sky for your house?

Then like music they seem to burst out together,
The little and the big, with a beautiful burst;
They sweeten the wind, they paint the weather,
And no one remembers which was first:
White rose, red rose,
Bud rose, shed rose,
Larkspur, and lily, and the rest,
North, south, east, west,
June, July, August, September!

Ever so late in the year will come
Many a red geranium,
And chrysanthemums up to November!
Then the Winter has overtaken them all,
The fogs and the rains begin to fall,
And the flowers, after running their races,
Are weary, and shut up their little faces,
And under the ground they go to sleep.
Is it very far down? Yes, ever so deep.

POLLY.

Brown eyes,
Straight nose;
Dirt pies,
Rumpled clothes;

Torn books,
Spoilt toys;
Arch looks,
Unlike a boy's;

Little rages,
Obvious arts;
(Three her age is,)
Cakes, tarts;

Falling down
Off chairs;
Breaking crown
Down stairs;

Catching flies
On the pane;
Deep sighs,—
Cause not plain;

Bribing you
With kisses
For a few
Farthing blisses;

Wide awake,
As you hear,
“Mercy's sake,
Quiet, dear!”

New shoes,
New frock;
Vague views
Of what's o'clock

When it's time
To go to bed,
And scorn sublime
For what is said;

Folded hands,
Saying prayers,
Understands
Not, nor cares;

Thinks it odd,
Smiles away;
Yet may God
Hear her pray!

Bedgown white,
Kiss Dolly;
Good night!—
That's Polly,

Fast asleep,
As you see;
Heaven keep
My girl for me!

THE WINDMILL.

Now, who will live in the Windmill, who,
With the powdery miller-man?
The miller is one, but who'll make two,
To share his loaf and can?

“O I will live with the miller, I!
To grind the corn is grand;
The great black sails go up on high,
And come down to the land!”

Now who will be the miller's bride?
The miller's in haste to wed
A girl in her pride, with a sash at her side,
A girl with a curly head!

“O I will be the miller's wife;
The dust it is all my joy;
To live in a windmill all my life
Would be a sweet employ!”

Then spake the goblin of the sails,
(You heard, but could not see)
“The wickedest man of the hills and dales,
The miller-man is he!

None ever dwelt in the mill before
But died by the miller's steel;
The whiskered rats lap up their gore,
He grinds their bones to meal!”

O gossiping goblin, my dreams will be bad,
You tell such dreadful tales!
O mill, how secret you seem! how mad,
How wicked you look, black sails!

THE GIRL THAT GARIBALDI KISSED.

Oh, where's the little maid
That Garibaldi kissed?
She ought to be displayed,
She shall be, I insist,

Command, resolve, determine,—
Beneath a tent of gold,
In swan's-down and in ermine,
If Christmas should be cold!

I am not very rich,
But would give a golden guinea
To see that little witch,
That happy pick-a-ninny!

He bowed to my own daughter,
And Polly is her name;
She wore a shirt of slaughter,
Of Garibaldi flame,—

Of course I mean of scarlet;
But the girl he kissed—who knows?—
May be named Selina Charlotte
And dressed in yellow clothes!

I look for her in church,
I seek her in the crowd;
Some bellman on a perch
Ought to ask for her out loud!

I would offer a reward,
But I might get cheated then,
And I cannot well afford
To make that guinea ten.

She may live up in Lancashire,
All in her yellow gown,
Or down in Hankypankyshire,
Or here in London town.

She may be on board a steamer
Upon the briny sea—
Oh stewardess! esteem her,
For a glorious girl is she!

Perhaps at some academy
Her Telemaque is read—
They would think it very bad of me
To turn her little head!

She may be doing fancy-work,
She may be taking tea;
But I wish some necromancy-work
Would bring that girl to me!

For I would dress the little girl
That Garibaldi kissed
In a necklace all of precious pearl,
With a bracelet for her wrist,

With diamonds in her stomacher,
And garlands in her hair;
She should sit, for folks to come at her,
All in a silver chair;

And no one would be rude
To Garibaldi's pet,—
The sight would do the people good,
They never would forget!

Oh glorious is the girl
Whom such a man has kissed,
The proudest duke or earl
Stands lower in the list!

It would be a happy plan
For everything that's human,
If the pet of such a man
Should grow to such a woman!

If she does as much in her way
As he has done in his,—
Turns bad things topsy-turvey,
And sad things into bliss,—
Oh, we shall not need a survey
To find that little miss,
Grown to a woman worthy
Of Garibaldi's kiss!

PETRONELLA: THE STONE STRAWBERRY GIRL.

I.

“O hasten, fair granddaughter, Petronell!
Follow me quick, by dingle and dell!
It is time for church; loud rings the bell—
Dong, dong, do you hear the bell?”

Now why do you linger, sweet maid, this day?
Your playmates, all in their best array,
Make haste to the church. They sing, they pray—
The Quam dilecta now they say!

Your grandame kneels in the choir alone;
Soft as a pillow she finds the stone,
For the thoughts that she thinks are not her own—
Oh, sweetly the choristers intone!

The shepherd-boys that love Petronell
Sit wondering after her. Was it well
That she did not follow the sweet church-bell?
Dong, dong, the happy bell!

II.

As Petronell in her chamber stood,
She had a thought that was not good;
She longed for the strawberries in the wood—
Strawberries red, in the green wild wood!

To the wood she ran, and lingered there,
Till the people came from the place of prayer;
They passed, rebuking: “I do not care!”
Petronella says, tossing her hair.

Up came her grandame, tottering alone:
“Would God the child were an innocent stone,
And not a sinner!” She died with a groan;
Oh, then, what a wonderful thing was shown!

For Petronella was seen no more,
And a little stone crag, moss-grown before,
The image of Petronella bore—
Oh, the wild strawberries clasped it o'er!

100

III.

Now year by year, the people tell
Of the maid that slighted the sweet church-bell,
The Stone Strawberry Girl, Petronell—
Ah, little maid, what a dreadful spell!

But is there a boy who never thought,
At prayer or at psalm, but the thing he ought?
By him the spell may be unwrought—
Oh, where may that happy boy be caught?

He must go, to the sound of the sweet church-bell,
And kiss the little stone Petronell—
That will dissolve the dreadful spell,
And the maid will wake, saying, “Well-a-day, well!”

I fear that Petronell must stay
Shut up in stone for many a day;
But if that little boy can find his way
To the poor Stone Strawberry Girl—he may!

101

FAIR LADY, RARE LADY.

Fair lady, rare lady,
Light on the lea
Wandering, and pondering—
“Oh, bring him to me!”

Gallant knight, valiant knight,
Swift on the sea
Sailing, prevailing,
Thy shallop shall be!

Ringing bells, singing bells,
Chime merrilie!
Brave knight and lady bright
Wedded shall be!

102

FRODGEDOBBULUM'S FANCY.

I.

Did you ever see Giant Frodgedobbulum,
With his double great-toe and his double great thumb?

Did you ever hear Giant Frodgedobbulum,
Saying Fa-fe-fi, and fo-faw-fum?

He shakes the earth as he walks along,
As deep as the sea, as far as Hong-kong!

He is a giant, and no mistake;
With teeth like the prongs of a garden rake!

II.

The Giant Frodgedobbulum got out of bed,
Sighing, “Heigh-ho! that I were but wed!”

103

The Giant Frodgedobbulum sat in his chair,
Saying, “Why should a giant be wanting a fair?”

The Giant Frodgedobbulum said to his boots,
“The first maid I meet I will wed—if she suits!”

They were Magic Boots, and they laughed as he spoke—
“Oh ho,” says the giant, “you think it's a joke?”

III.

So he put on his boots, and came stumping down,
Clatter and clump, into Banbury town—

He did not fly into Banbury,
Having plenty of time to walk, you see!

He kicked at the gate—“Within there, ho!”
“Oh, what is your name?” says the porter Slow.

“Oh, the Giant Frodgedobbulum am I,
For a wife out of Banbury town I sigh!”

Up spake the porter, bold and free,
“Your room we prefer to your company.”

104

Up spake Frodgedobbulum, free and bold,
“I will build up your town with silver and gold!”

Up spake Marjorie, soft and small,
“I will not be your wife at all!”

The Giant knocked in the gate with his feet,
And there stood Marjorie in the street!

She was nine years old, she was lissome and fair,
And she wore emeralds in her hair.

She could dance like a leaf, she could sing like a thrush,
She was bold as the north-wind, and sweet as a blush.

Her father tanned, her mother span,
“But Marjorie shall marry a gentleman,—

Silks and satins, I'll lay you a crown!”—
So said the people in Banbury town.

Such was Marjorie—and who should come
To woo her but this Frodgedobbulum,

105

A vulgar giant, who wore no gloves,
And very pig-headed in his loves!

IV.

They rang the alarum, and in the steeple
They tolled the church-bells to rouse the people.

But all the people in Banbury town
Could not put Frodgedobbulum down.

The tanner thought to stab him dead—
“Somebody pricked me?” the giant said.

The mother wept—“I do not care,”
Said F.—“why should I be wanting a fair?”

He snatched up Marjorie, stroked his boot,
And fled; with Banbury in pursuit!

“What ho, my boots! put forth your power!
Carry me sixty miles an hour!”

In ditches and dykes, over stocks and stones,
The Banbury people fell, with groans.

106

Frodgedobbulum passed over river and tree,
Gollopy-gallop, with Marjorie;—

The people beneath her Marjorie sees
Of the size of mites in an Oxford cheese!

V.

Castle Frodgedobbulum sulked between
Two bleak hills, in a deep ravine.

It was always dark there, and always drear,
The same time of day and the same time of year.

The walls of the castle were slimy and black,
There were dragons in front, and toads at the back.

Spiders there were, and of vampires lots;
Ravens croaked round the chimney-pots.

Seven bull-dogs barked in the hall;
Seven wild cats did caterwaul!

The giant said, with a smirk on his face,
“My Marjorie, this is a pretty place;

107

As Mrs. F. you will lead, with me,
A happier life than in Banbury!

Pour out my wine, and comb my hair,
And let me to sleep in my easy chair;

But, first, my boots I will kick away”—
And Marjorie answered, “S'il vous plait!”

Then the giant mused, “It befits my station
To marry a lady of education;

But who would have thought this Banbury wench
Was so accomplished, and could speak French?”

Did you ever hear Frodgedobbulum snore?
He shook the castle from roof to floor!

Fast asleep as a pig was he—
“And very much like one!” thought Marjorie.

VI.

Then Marjorie stood on a leathern chair,
And opened the window to the air.

108

The bats did flap, the owls did hoot—
Marjorie lifted the giant's boot!

The ravens shrieked, the owls did hoot—
Marjorie got into the giant's boot!

And Marjorie said, “I can reach the moon,
Before you waken, you big buffoon!”

Once, twice, three times, and away,—
“Which is the road to Banbury, pray?”

The Boot made answer, “Hah, hah! hoh, hoh!
The road to Banbury town I know.”

VII.

The giant awoke in his easy chair,
Saying, “Ho, little Marjorie, are you there?

A stoup of wine, to be spiced the same!—
Exquisite Marjorie, je vous aime!”

Now where was Marjorie? Safe and sound
In the magic boot she cleared the ground.

109

Frodgedobbulum groaned—“I am bereft!
The left boot's gone, and the right is left!—

The window's open! I'll bet a crown
That girl is off to Banbury town!

But follow, follow, my faithful Boot!
One is enough for the pursuit;

And back to my arms the wench shall come
As sure as my name's Frodgedobbulum!”

VIII.

Hasty Frodgedobbulum, being a fool,
Forgot of the Magic Boots the rule.

They were made on a right and a left boot-tree,
But he put the wrong leg in the boot, you see!

It was a terrible mistake,
For even a giant in love to make—

Terrible in its consequences,
Frightful to any man's seven senses!

110

Down came a thunderbolt, rumble and glare!
Frodgedobbulum Castle blew up in the air!

The giant, deprived of self-control,
Was carried away to the very North Pole;

For such was the magic rule. Poor F.
Now sits on the peak of the Arctic cliff!

The point is so sharp it makes him shrink;
The northern streamers, they make him blink;

One boot on, and one boot off,
He shivers and shakes, and thinks, with a cough,

“Safe in Banbury, Marjorie dwells;
Marjorie will marry some one else!”

IX.

And so Frodgedobbulum, the giant,
Sits on the North Pole incompliant.

He blinks at the snow with its weary white;
He blinks at the spears of the northern light;

111

Kicks out with one boot; says, “Fi-fo-fum!
I am the Giant Frodgedobbulum!”

But who cares whether he is or not,
Living in such an inclement spot?

Banbury town is the place for me,
And a kiss from merry Marjorie,

With the clerk in the vestry to see all fair—
For she wears orange-flowers in her hair!

She can dance like a leaf, she can sing like a thrush,
She is bold as the north-wind, and sweet as a blush;

Her father he tans, her mother she spins;
Frodgedobbulum sits on the Pole for his sins;

But here comes Marjorie, white as milk,
A rose on her bosom as soft as silk,

On her finger a gay gold ring;
The bridegroom holds up his head like a king!

Marjorie has married a gentleman;
Who knows when the wedding began?

112

L'ENVOI.

Versification,
Likewise illustration;
Flowers of my growing
From seed up to blowing;
Flowers of my finding,
Gathering, and binding;
Home-flower and heather,
Mingled together;—
Take these confusions,
Ye dear Lilliputians!

THE END.