Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,

An' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,

An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,

An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;

An' all us other children, when the supper things is done,

We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun

A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about.

An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you

Ef  you

Don't

Watch

Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,—

So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,

His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,

An' when they turn't the kivers down, he wasn't there at all!

An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubbyhole, an press,

An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;

But all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!

An' the Gobble-uns git you

Ef  you

Don't

Watch

Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,

An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin;

An' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,

She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!

An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,

They was two great big black Things a-standin' by her side,

An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!

An' the Gobble-uns'll git you

Ef  you

Don't

Watch

Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,

An' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!

An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,

An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,—

You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,

An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,

An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,

Er the Gobble-uns'll git you

Ef  you

Don't

Watch

Out!

James Whitcomb Riley

From morning to night 't was Lucy's delight

To chatter and talk without stopping;

There was not a day but she rattled away,

Like water forever a-dropping!

As soon as she rose, while she put on her clothes,

'Twas vain to endeavor to still her;

Nor once did she lack to continue her clack,

Till again she lay down on her pillow.

You'll think now, perhaps, there would have been gaps,

If she hadn't been wonderful clever;

That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate

That it would be forthcoming forever.

But that's quite absurd; for have you not heard,

Much tongue and few brains are connected,

That they are supposed to think least who talk most,

And their wisdom is always suspected?

While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue

With a little good sense and exertion,

Who knows but she might have been our delight,

Instead of our jest and aversion?

Ann Taylor

I come, I come! ye have called me long;

I come o'er the mountains, with light and song.

Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth

By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,

By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,

By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers

By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,

And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes

Are veiled with wreathes on Italian plains;

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

There was a monkey climbed up a tree,

When he fell down, then down fell he.

There was a crow sat on a stone,

When he was gone, then there was none.

There was an old wife did eat an apple,

When she had eat two, she had eat a couple.

There was a horse going to the mill,

When he went on, he stood not still.

There was a butcher cut his thumb,

When it did bleed, then blood did come.

There was a lackey ran a race,

When he ran fast, he ran apace.

There was a cobbler clouting shoon,

When they were mended, they were done.

There was a chandler making candle,

When he them strip, he did them handle.

There was a navy went into Spain,

When it returned, it came again.

Anonymous

A traveller on a dusty road

Strewed acorns on the lea;

And one took root and sprouted up,

And grew into a tree.

Love sought its shade at evening-time,

To breathe its early vows;

And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,

To bask beneath its boughs.

The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,

The birds sweet music bore—

It stood a glory in its place,

A blessing evermore.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

Little children shall not toil

Under, or above, the soil

In the good time coming;

But shall play in healthful fields,

Till limbs and mind grow stronger;

And every one shall read and write;—

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

The people shall be temperate,

And shall love instead of hate,

In the good time coming.

They shall use, and not abuse,

And make all virtue stronger;

The reformation has begun;—

Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

Let us aid it all we can,

Every woman, every man,

The good time coming:

Smallest helps, if rightly given,

Make the impulse stronger;

'T will be strong enough one day;—

Wait a little longer.

Charles Mackay

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water round you curled,

And the wonderful grass upon your breast,

World, you are beautifully drest.

The wonderful air is over me,

And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree—

It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,

And talks to itself on the top of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go,

With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,

With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,

And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,

I hardly can think of you, World, at all;

And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,

My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,

"If the wonderful World is great to you,

And great to father and mother, too,

You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!

You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see,

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed!

Robert Louis Stevenson

By cool Siloam's shady rill

How sweet the lily grows!

How sweet the breath beneath the hill

Of Sharon's dewy rose!

Lo, such the child whose early feet

The paths of peace have trod;

Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,

Is upward drawn to God.

By cool Siloam's shady rill

The lily must decay;

The rose that blooms beneath the hill

Must shortly fade away.

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour

Of man's maturer age

Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,

And stormy passion's rage.

O Thou, whose infant feet were found

Within thy Father's shrine,

Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned,

Were all alike divine;

Dependent on thy bounteous breath,

We seek thy grace alone,

In childhood, manhood, age, and death,

To keep us still thine own.

Reginald Heber

They grew in beauty, side by side,

They filled one home with glee;

Their graves are severed far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night

O'er each fair, sleeping brow;

She had each folded flower in sight:

Where are those sleepers now?

One, midst the forest of the West,

By a dark stream is laid;

The Indian knows his place of rest,

Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one;

He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed

Above the noble slain;

He wrapped the colors round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one—o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves by soft winds fanned;

She faded midst Italian flowers—

The last of that fair band.

And parted thus, they rest who played

Beneath the same green tree;

Whose voices mingled as they prayed

Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,

And cheered with song the hearth;

Alas for love! if thou wert all,

And naught beyond, O earth!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit—

I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain,

And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;

And when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

The little maiden did reply,

"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; these two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'T was throwing words away; for still

The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

William Wordsworth

The fox and the crow,

In prose, I well know,

Many good little girls can rehearse:

Perhaps it will tell

Pretty nearly as well,

If we try the same fable in verse.

In a dairy a crow,

Having ventured to go,

Some food for her young ones to seek,

Flew up in the trees,

With a fine piece of cheese,

Which she joyfully held in her beak.

A fox, who lived by,

To the tree saw her fly,

And to share in the prize made a vow;

For having just dined,

He for cheese felt inclined,

So he went and sat under the bough.

She was cunning, he knew,

But so was he too,

And with flattery adapted his plan;

For he knew if she'd speak,

It must fall from her beak,

So, bowing politely, began.

"'T is a very fine day"

(Not a word did she say):

"The wind, I believe, ma'am, is south:

A fine harvest for peas:"

He then looked at the cheese,

But the crow did not open her mouth.

Sly Reynard, not tired,

Her plumage admired,

"How charming! how brilliant its hue!

The voice must be fine,

Of a bird so divine,

Ah, let me just hear it, pray do.

"Believe me, I long

To hear a sweet song!"

The silly crow foolishly tries:

She scarce gave one squall,

When the cheese she let fall,

And the fox ran away with the prize.

God might have bade the earth bring forth

Enough for great and small,

The oak tree and the cedar tree,

Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough

For every want of ours,

For luxury, medicine, and toil,

And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine

Requireth none to grow;

Nor doth it need the lotus flower

To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain,

The nightly dews might fall,

And the herb that keepeth life in man

Might yet have drunk them all.

Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,

All dyed with rainbow light,

All fashioned with supremest grace,

Upspringing day and night,—

Springing in valleys green and low,

And on the mountain high,

And in the silent wilderness,

Where no man passes by?

Our outward life requires them not,

Then wherefore had they birth?—

To minister delight to man,

To beautify the earth;

To comfort man, to whisper hope

Whene'er his faith is dim;

For Whoso careth for the flowers

Will much more care for him.

Mary Howitt

One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,

Although he was poor, did not want to be richer;

For all such vain wishes in him were prevented

By a fortunate habit of being contented.

Though cold was the weather, or dear was the food,

John never was found in a murmuring mood;

For this he was constantly heard to declare,—

What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.

"For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said;

"If I cannot get meat, I can surely get bread;

And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper,

It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper."

If John was afflicted with sickness or pain,

He wished himself better, but did not complain,

Nor lie down and fret in despondence and sorrow,

But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.

If any one wronged him or treated him ill,

Why, John was good-natured and sociable still;

For he said that revenging the injury done

Would be making two rogues when there need be but one,

And thus honest John, though his station was humble,

Passed through this sad world without even a grumble;

And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer,

Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.

Jane Taylor