"You are old, Father William," the young man cried;

"The few locks which are left you are gray;

You are hale, Father William—a hearty old man:

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remembered that youth would fly fast,

And abused not my health and my vigor at first,

That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,

"And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone:

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remembered that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,

"And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied;

"Let the cause thy attention engage:

In the days of my youth I remembered my God;

And he hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey

The frost looked forth on a still, clear night,

And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight;

So through the valley and over the height

I'll silently take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train,

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,

That make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they!"

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,

And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then

And new-born baby died:

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why 't was a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay—nay—my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory.

"And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win."

"And what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,

"But 't was a famous victory."

Robert Southey

"Why, sir!—d'ye think I've lost my eyes?"

"'T were no great loss," the friend replies,

"For, if they always serve you thus,

You'll find them of but little use."

So high at last the contest rose,

From words they almost came to blows;

When luckily came by a third—

To him the question they referred,

And begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew,

Whether the thing was green or blue.

"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother!

The creature's neither one nor t' other.

I caught the animal last night,

And viewed it o'er by candlelight:

I marked it well—'t was black as jet—

You stare—but sirs, I've got it yet,

And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do:

I'll lay my life the thing is blue."

"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen

The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."

"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"

Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:

And when before your eyes I've set him,

If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."

He said: then full before their sight

Produced the beast, and lo!—'t was white.

Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise—

"My children," the chameleon cries,

(Then first the creature found a tongue,)

"You are all right, and all are wrong:

When next you talk of what you view,

Think others see as well as you;

Nor wonder, if you find that none

Prefers your eyesight to his own."

James Merrick

"Why, Phebe, are you come so soon?

Where are your berries, child?

You cannot, sure, have sold them all,

You had a basket piled."

"No, mother, as I climbed the fence,

The nearest way to town,

My apron caught upon the stake,

And so I tumbled down.

"I scratched my arm and tore my hair,

But still did not complain;

And had my blackberries been safe,

Should not have cared a grain.

"But when I saw them on the ground.

All scattered by my side,

I picked my empty basket up,

And down I sat and cried.

"Just then a pretty little Miss

Chanced to be walking by;

She stopped, and looking pitiful,

She begged me not to cry.

"'Poor little girl, you fell,' said she,

'And must be sadly hurt;'

'Oh, no,' I cried; 'but see my fruit,

All mixed with sand and dirt.'

"And when thou 'rt in the lonesome glen,

Keep by the running burn,

And do not pluck the strawberry flower,

Nor break the lady-fern.

"But think not of the fairy folk,

Lest mischief should befall;

Think only of poor Amy,

And how thou lov'st us all.

"Yet keep good heart, my Mabel,

If thou the fairies see,

And give them kindly answer

If they should speak to thee.

"And when into the fir-wood

Thou goest for fagots brown,

Do not, like idle children,

Go wandering up and down.

"But fill thy little apron,

My child, with earnest speed;

And that thou break no living bough

Within the wood take heed.

"For they are spiteful brownies

Who in the wood abide;

So be thou careful of this thing,

Lest evil should betide.

"But think not, little Mabel,

Whilst thou art in the wood,

Of dwarfish, willful brownies,

But of the Father good.

"And when thou goest to the spring

To fetch the water thence,

Do not disturb the little stream,

Lest this should give offense.

"For the queen of all the fairies,

She loves that water bright;

I've seen her drinking there myself

On many a summer night.

"But she's a gracious lady,

And her thou need'st not fear;

Only disturb thou not the stream,

Nor spill the water clear."

"Now all this I will heed, mother,

Will no word disobey,

And wait upon the grandmother

This livelong summer day."

Away tripped little Mabel,

With the wheaten cake so fine,

With the new-made pat of butter,

And the little flask of wine.

And long before the sun was hot,

And the summer mist had cleared,

Beside the good old grandmother

The willing child appeared.

And all her mother's message

She told with right good-will,

How that the father was away,

And the little child was ill.

And then she swept the hearth up clean,

And then the table spread;

And next she fed the dog and bird;

And then she made the bed.

"And go now," said the grandmother,

"Ten paces down the dell,

And bring in water for the day,—

Thou know'st the lady-well."

The first time that good Mabel went,

Nothing at all saw she,

Except a bird, a sky-blue bird,

That sat upon a tree.

The next time that good Mabel went,

There sat a lady bright

Beside the well,—a lady small,

All clothed in green and white.

A courtesy low made Mabel,

And then she stooped to fill

Her pitcher at the sparkling spring,

But no drop did she spill.

"Thou art a handy maiden,"

The fairy lady said;

"Thou hast not spilt a drop, nor yet

The fairy spring troubled!

"And for this thing which thou hast done,

Yet mayst not understand,

I give to thee a better gift

Than houses or than land.

"Thou shalt do well whate'er thou dost,

As thou hast done this day;

Shalt have the will and power to please,

And shalt be loved alway."

Thus having said, she passed from sight,

And naught could Mabel see,

But the little bird, the sky-blue bird,

Upon the leafy tree.

"And now go," said the grandmother,

"And fetch in fagots dry;

All in the neighboring fir-wood

Beneath the trees they lie."

Away went kind, good Mabel,

Into the fir-wood near,

Where all the ground was dry and brown.

And the grass grew thin and sear.

She did not wander up and down,

Nor yet a live branch pull,

But steadily of the fallen boughs

She picked her apron full.

And when the wildwood brownies

Came sliding to her mind,

She drove them thence, as she was told,

With home thoughts sweet and kind.

But all that while the brownies

Within the fir-wood still,

They watched her how she picked the wood,

And strove to do no ill.

"And, oh, but she is small and neat,"

Said one; "'t were shame to spite

A creature so demure and meek,

A creature harmless quite!"

"Look only," said another,

"At her little gown of blue;

At her kerchief pinned about her head,

And at her little shoe!"

"Oh, but she is a comely child,"

Said a third; "and we will lay

A good-luck penny in her path,

A boon for her this day,—

Seeing she broke no living wood;

No live thing did affray!"

With that the smallest penny,

Of the finest silver ore,

Upon the dry and slippery path,

Lay Mabel's feet before.

With joy she picked the penny up,

The fairy penny good;

And with her fagots dry and brown

Went wandering from the wood.

"Now she has that," said the brownies,

"Let flax be ever so dear,

'T will buy her clothes of the very best,

For many and many a year!"

"And go now," said the grandmother,

"Since falling is the dew,

Go down unto the lonesome glen,

And milk the mother ewe!"

All down into the lonesome glen,

Through copses thick and wild,

Through moist rank grass, by trickling streams,

Went on the willing child.

And when she came to the lonesome glen,

She kept beside the burn,

And neither plucked the strawberry flower

Nor broke the lady fern.

And while she milked the mother ewe

Within this lonesome glen,

She wished that little Amy

Were strong and well again.

And soon as she thought this thought,

She heard a coming sound,

As if a thousand fairy folk

Were gathering all around.

And then she heard a little voice,

Shrill as the midge's wing,

That spake aloud,—"A human child

Is here; yet mark this thing,—

"The lady-fern is all unbroke,

The strawberry flower unta'en!

What shall be done for her who still

From mischief can refrain?"

"Give her a fairy cake!" said one;

"Grant her a wish!" said three;

"The latest wish that she hath wished,"

Said all, "whate'er it be!"

Kind Mabel heard the words they spake,

And from the lonesome glen

Unto the good old grandmother

Went gladly back again.

Thus happened it to Mabel

On that midsummer day,

And these three fairy blessings

She took with her away.

'T is good to make all duty sweet,

To be alert and kind;

'T is good, like little Mabel,

To have a willing mind.

Mary Howitt

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,

And cheer'ly smiled the morn;

And many a brach, and many a hound,

Attend Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a louder cheer;

"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last

Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam,

The flower of all his race?

So true, so brave—a lamb at home,

A lion in the chase."

That day Llewellyn little loved

The chase of hart or hare,

And scant and small the booty proved,

For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,

When, near the portal seat,

His truant Gelert he espied,

Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle door,

Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smeared with gouts of gore

His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise;

Unused such looks to meet,

His fav'rite checked his joyful guise,

And crouched, and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed

(And on went Gelert too),

And still, where'er his eyes were cast,

Fresh blood gouts shocked his view!

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,

The blood-stained cover rent;

And all around the walls and ground

With recent blood besprent.

He called his child—no voice replied;

He searched with terror wild;

Blood! blood! he found on every side,

But nowhere found his child!

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured!"

The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,

No pity could impart;

But still his Gelert's dying yell

Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,

Some slumberer wakened nigh;

What words the parent's joy can tell,

To hear his infant cry!

Concealed beneath a mangled heap,

His hurried search had missed,

All glowing from his rosy sleep,

His cherub boy he kissed!

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,

But the same couch beneath

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,—

Tremendous still in death!

Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!

For now the truth was clear;

The gallant hound the wolf had slain,

To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;

"Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic deed which laid thee low

This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raised,

With costly sculpture decked;

And marbles storied with his praise

Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearmen pass,

Or forester, unmoved,

Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass

Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear,

And oft, as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear

Poor Gelert's dying yell.

William Robert Spencer

The ground was all covered with snow one day,

And two little sisters were busy at play,

When a snowbird was sitting close by on a tree,

And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee,

Chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,

And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee.

He had not been singing that tune very long,

Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song:

"Oh, sister, look out of the window," said she;

"Here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee.

Chick-a-de-dee, etc.

"Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,

And a nice little frock, and a hat if he choose;

I wish he'd come into the parlor and see

How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee."

Chick-a-de-dee, etc.

"There is one, my dear child, though I cannot tell who,

Has clothed me already, and warm enough too.

Good morning! Oh, who are so happy as we?"

And away he went singing his chick-a-de-dee.

Chick-a-de-dee, etc.

Francis C. Woodworth

Is there for honest poverty

Wha hangs his head, and a' that?

The coward slave, we pass him by;

We dare be poor for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;

The rank is but the guinea's stamp,—

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin gray, and a' that?

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,—

A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that—

Though hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coof for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;

The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that;

But an honest man's aboon his might,—

Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that;

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,

Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,—

As come it will for a' that,—

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree, and a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,—

When man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that!

Robert Burns