Mother Goose for Grown Folks

FUNERAL HOLIDAY

"Ding, dong, bell,The cat's in the well!Who put her in? Little John Green.Who pulled her out? Great John Stout!"-There was never a drama of sorrow<>But good folks might be found, I'm afraid,Who a queer satisfaction could borrowFrom the parts of importance they played.There is war for four years in the nation:There are havoc and panic abroad:Comes a tempest; a wild conflagration:Great souls go up home to their God.How the tall I's spring thick in the spell-ing!—I knew, or I saw, or I said!—How the small ones turn out to the swellingEach splendor of final parade!How many are left, we may wonder,Heart-mournful for that which befell?How many would wish back the blunder"When the Cat has got into the Well!Nay, more; if with infinite botherAnd peril, poor Puss is got out,Somehow, one boy seems famous as t' other,John Green is as big as John Stout!See, now! let me tell you a storyOf something which happened in sooth;That shows with how fearless a gloryThe children and simple speak truth.Biddy came to her mistress refulgent;A whole sunrise of smiles on her face;'With w M'am, could ye be so indulgentJist to shpare me the day, if ye plase?"It 's me cousin that 's dead,—KateM'Gawtherin,—Was married to Barnaby Roach;An' I 'd want,—but I hates to be both-erin',—Three shillings to pay for the coach!"And so we were minus our dinners;And all that deplorable dayWe fasted, like penitent sinners,While Biddy the cook was away.But she came when the sunset was gleam-ing;And her story she gleefully told;Disdaining all dolorous seeming,In a way that was good to behold.Each loving and sad recollectionOf the late Mrs. Barnaby RoachQuite absorbed in the single reflectionThat she "wint wid himsel' in the coach!""For he thrated me, faith, like a lady,An' he paid me me fare, an' ahl;An' he tould me that I, Bridget Brady,Was the charm of the funeral!"

DISROBED

"There was a little woman, as I've heard tell,She went to market her eggs for to sell:She went to market all on a market day,And she fell asleep on the king's highway."There came a little peddler, his name was Stout;He cut off her petticoats round about:He cut off her petticoats up to her knees,And the poor little woman began for to freeze."She began to shiver, and she began to cry,Lawk-a-mercy on me! sure it is n't I!But if it be I, as I think it ought to be,I 've got a little dog at home, and he knows me!"I think of a poor, tired Soul,That has trodden, up and down,The tradeways of this busy life,To and from its market town,Till, traffic and toil all past,At the silent close of the day,She lies down, weary and worn, at last,On the king's highway;—The highway that brings all home,Never a one left out;—And in her sleep doth a Stranger comeWho cuts her garments about.Cuts the life-tatters away,All the old rags and the stain;And leaves the Soul 'twixt her night andday,To waken again.Slowly she wakens, and strange;Strange and scared she doth seem;Marvelling at the mystical changeCome over her in her dream."Where is my life?" she cries,"That which I knew me by?Something is here in an unknown guise:Can it be I?"I wonder if anything is:Or if I am anything:Did ever a Soul come bare as thisFrom its earthward marketing?Let me think down into the past;Bethink me hard in the cold;Find me something to stand by fast;Something to hold!"She thinks away back to the morning,To something she loved and knew;And over her doubt comes dawningSense of the dear and true."I do n't know if it be I," she sighs;"But if after all it be,There 's a little heart at home in the skies,And he 'll know me!"

JACK AND JILL

"Jack and JillWent up the hill,To draw a pail of water:Jack fell downAnd broke his crown,And Jill came tumbling after."Jack and Jill went up the hill,When the world was young, together.Jack and Jill went up the hill,In Eden ways and weather.She to seek out blessed springs,He to bear the burden:Nature their sole choice of things,Love their only guerdon.That was all the simple creatures knew.Jack and Jill come down the hill,In the world's fall years, together.Jack and Jill come down the hill,And there is stormy weather.'T is all about the pail, you see;The sweet springs are behind them:Empty-handed seemeth sheWho only helped to find them.Jill would like to swing a bucket, too.O'er the hillside coming down,Eagerly and proudly,Sparkling trophies to the townTo bear, she clamors loudly.But, in face of all the town,Challenging its laughter,Many a Jack comes tumbling down.Shall the Jills come after?Is that what the women want to do?Listen! When on heights of lifeHidden pools He planted,God to Adam and his wifeWise division granted.Gave his son the pitcher broadFor wealth and weight of water;But the quick divining-rodConfided to his daughter.Ah, if men and women only knew!

CASUS BELLI

Impromptu, July, 1870."The sow came in with the saddle;The little pig rocked the cradle;The dish jumped up on the tableTo see the pot swallow the ladle;The spit that stood behind the doorThrew the pudding-stick on the floor."Odsplut!" said the gridiron,Can't you agree?I'm the head constable,Bring 'em to me.'"Spain came in with an empty throne;The little prince rocked his German cradle"No, no," he said;And he shook his head;"I am well content to be let alone."All the dishes on pantry-ledgeAnd shelf, and table, were up on edge,To see how the Pot,Simmering hot,Would foam at the dip of the threateningladle.Nothing befell for a minute or so,(Nobody chose to be first, you know),Till the royal spit, with an angry frown,Threw a little pudding-stick down."Odsplut!" shouts Emperor Gridiron,Hissing for a broil,"Those folks that stand behind the doorAre getting up a coil!I 've red Fire panting at my feet;I thought how things would be!I?m creation's constable,Bring the world to me!"

THE DAYS THAT ARE LONG

"I'll sing you a songOf the days that are long;Of the woodcock and the sparrow;Of the little dogThat burnt his tail,And he shall be whipt to-morrow."That is the song the world singsOf the long bright days:That is the way she evens things,Portions, and pays.The dog that let his tail burn,Proving one pain,Shall be whipt next day, that he may learnWisdom again.That is the song the world singsTo sin and sorrow:Over her limit her hard lash flingsInto God's morrow.Measures His dear divine graceIn compass narrow:Counts for nothing the infinite days;Forgets the sparrow.The world sings only a half song;Leaves our hearts sore:Heaven, in the time that is tender and long,Will sing us more.

THREESCORE AND TEN

"How many miles to Babylon?Threescore and ten.Can I get there by candle-light?Yes, and back again."How many miles of the weary way?Threescore miles and ten.Where shall I be at the end of the day?Yon shall be back again.You shall prove it all in the lifelong round;The joy, and the pain and the sinning;And at candle-light your soul shall be foundBack—at its new beginning.Down in his grave the old man lies;In from the earthward wild,At the open door of ParadiseEnters a little child.

TWO LITTLE BLACKBIRDS

"Two little blackbirds sat upon a stone;One flew away, and then there was one;The other flew after and then there was none;So the poor stone was left all alone."One of these little birds back again flew;The other came after, and then there were two;Says one to the other, pray, how do you do?Very well, thank you, and, pray, how are you?A stone is the barest fact:But living and wonderful thingsGather to earthly occasion and actWith folded or parting wings.Birds of the air are they,—Our knowledge, our thought, our love,—And the ethers in which they win their wayAre breaths of the heaven above.Some place and point of the hour,—The same little fact for two,—Who knoweth the lasting wonder and powerIt holdeth for me and you;Away in the long-past years,With trifle of merest chance,Keeping, through losing, and blinding, andtears,The key of its circumstance?I, left to the narrowed earth,—You into the great heaven gone,—And things of our sharing,—our work, ourmirth,—So lonely to brood upon!Yet ever, when thought recurs,With hardly a reckoning why,To some old, small memory, straightway stirsThat sound of wings in the sky;And like birds to a resting-place,—No longer one, but the two,—Alight the remembrances, face to face,Alive between me and you;And heaven grows real and dear,And earth widens up to heaven;And all that had vanished, and stayed sonear,In one marvellous glimpse is given.For memory is return:Ourselves are what we have been:And what we have been together, we learnOur life doth continue in.Spread, then, the angel wings!I lose you not as you go;Since heart finds heart in the uttermostthingsTwo thoughts may revisit so!

TAFFY

'Taffy was a Welshman,Taffy was a thief;Taffy came to my houseAnd stole a piece of beef:I went to Taffy's house,Taffy was n't at home;Taffy came to my houseAnd stole a marrow bone:I went to Taffy's house,Taffy was in bed;I took the marrow bone,And beat about his head."Old Time came unto my house of clay,And pilfered its pride of flesh away:I knocked at the doors of the years in vainTo ask for its goodliness again.Old Time came unto me yet once more,For crueller theft than he thieved before;Stealing the very marrow and boneThat the strength of my life was builded on.Old Time! At last thou shalt lie in thy bed,And thy years and days be buried anddead;And the strength of the life to come shallbeIn the great revenge I will have of thee!

MARGERY DAW

"See, saw! Margery DawSold her bed, and lay upon straw;Sold her straw, and lay upon dirt;Was n't she a good-for-naught?"O Margery Daw! Mistress Margery Daw!Not yours the sole lapse that the world eversaw!In precisely such willful gradationI fear me religion and morals and lawGo down, step by step, to the dirt throughthe straw,In the church and the mart and the nation.A yielding of that, and a dropping of this,—("With straw fresh and plenty, pray whatis amiss?The bed may be wider and cleaner;" )Ah, that's as you make it, and shake it,you 'll find;And with slumber forgetful, and luxuryblind,What you rest in grows meaner andmeaner."In righteousness walking," the Scriptureverse goes,—"They rest in their beds," and find blessedrepose;And the beautiful contrary dictionIs neither Isaiah's mistake, nor a wordAt random declared, to be scoffingly heard,But a truth in the freedom of fiction.O Margery Daw! Mistress Margery Daw!It shall always be gospel, what always waslaw:Some bed-making none may dispensewith,—In dust of the earth, or in heart of theheaven,—And to soul of mankind shall no Sabbath begivenSave that it lies down and contents with.

TROUBLED WITH RATS

"Pretty John Watts,We are troubled with rats;Will you drive them out of the house?There are mice, too, in plenty,"Who feast in the pantry;But let them stay,And nibble away;What harm in a little brown mouse?"A curious puzzle hauntsThe brain of the commentator,Whether John Watts, perchance,Be preacher or legislator.We 're troubled with rats, we cry:And who shall drive out the vermin?Let senate and pulpit try:Urge edict, and scourge with sermon.They steal, they riot, they slay:They are noisy, they are noisome:Mice in the pantry, you say?Ah, those little things are toysome!They only nibble, you see;They only frolic and scamper:What harm can it possibly beA little brown mouse to pamper?They 're not of the race, John Watts!From them we need no protection;They will never develop to rats,By survival or selection.And yet, John Watts! John Watts!Whether in closet or highway,I doubt me that mice and ratsAre akin, in some sort of sly way;And as long as the world sins on,That the odds will be but a quibbleBetween the deeds that are doneBy brutes that devour—or nibble!"Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree;Up went the pussy-cat, down came he:Down came the pussy-cat, away Robin ran;Says little Robin Redbreast, catch me if you can!Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon a spade;Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then he was afraid;Little Robin chirped and sung, and what did pussy say?Pussy said, Me-ow! Me-ow! and Robin flew away."Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree,Heartsome and glad;The cheer of life, in the green of life, what-ever so blithe may be?Fol de roi, de rol, lad!Up went the pussy-cat, and down camehe,—Woe befall for the claws, lad!The care of life, and the fear of life, itcreepeth so stealthily,—So threatsome and sad!And woe befall for the claws, lad!Down came the pussy-cat, away Robinran,In his scarlet clad;There may be a day for running away, forredcoated bird or man.Fol de roi, de rol, lad!Says little Robin Redbreast, Catch me ifyou can!Two merry legs to the four, lad!A quick, bold pair, that scampers fair, ispart of the saving plan,And a match for the padAprowl on the pitiless four, lad!Little Robin Redbreast hopped upon aspade;This is n't so bad!All of leafy green, and for joy, I ween, theworld was never made.Fol de roi, de rol, lad!Pussy-cat jumped after him, and then hewas afraid;Ah, what's the use of all, lad?There 's death in our work, there's fear tolurk in the places where we played.What help 's to be had?And what is the use of all, lad?Little Robin chirped and sung, the samebrave roundelay;There's room to be glad!There's always a light behind the night;there's never a will but a way;Fol de roi, de rol, lad!Little Robin chirped and sung, and what didpussy say?Creeping, and stretching the claws, lad?Pussy said, O-w! P-shaw i Me-ow! forRobin was off and away.There's wings to be had!And fol de rol for the claws, lad!"When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself,And all the bread and cheese I got I put upon a shelf.The rats and the mice, they made such a strife,I was forced to go to London to get me a wife.The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so nar-rowI was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow.The wheelbarrow broke, and my wife had a fall,Down came wheelbarrow, wife, and all."Of course it did. Whatever could you pos-sibly expect, sir?You chose a quite peculiar style to cherishand protect, sir!Your resource in emergency commands myadmiration,But I wonder was it want—or excess—ofcalculation,That the wheelbarrow broke?The one-wheeled way gave out, you say?Indeed, I should have guessed so,From the very frank preamble of your pre-cious manifesto!When all the bread and cheese you got youshut up in your closet,Driving such single-blessed team, whatstrange amazement was itThat your wheelbarrow broke?You were managing quite finely till the ratsand mice got at it,And forced you to the slow resolve, how-e'er you might combat itWith other prompting, that a wife must beyour choice of crossesIn a world of moth and rust and thieves,and all provoking losses?Yes,—the wheelbarrow broke.When the scramble and the screed began,you fain would share your trouble,But in no other sense, it seems, arrange forgoing double;The generous thoroughfares of life were toowide for your barrow,And the single footpath in the lane youplodded was too narrowFor a couple in a yoke.The old plan was a careful one; but it couldnever carryNew needs; you should have thought ofthat before you thought to marry;And still you strove to push it through,with many a frown and grumble,Till the poor little wife and all had got adreadful tumble,When the wheelbarrow broke.Broke midway in the struggle: a providen-tial mystery:The usual meek accounting for of such mis-handled history:As if it were the method of the wisdom andthe gloryTo run the earth on one wheel,—and eachsmall earthly story,—Till the wheelbarrow broke!Ah, friend! of God's mechanics you mistakethe grand solution;On no weak, single centre runs the perfectrevolution;But one circuit round the sun,—one self-circling for the planet,—And one divine consent of both,—so firstthe power began it,And creation was bespoke.Be sure you must in everything waste hopeand love and labor,Moving cheaply by yourself,—nowisegreatly with your neighbor.Cease, then, with such ill-balance in theways of life to wraxle,And put an equal-turning wheel on eachend of your axle,Since your wheelbarrow 's broke!

THE FOOTPATH WAY

"Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,And merrily jump the stile, O!A merry heart goes all the day,Your sad one tires in a mile, O!"Who goes to-day by the footpath way,When with ocean leagues the steamshipsplay,And under mountains and over plainsRuns the level thunder of the trains?Who goes to-day by the footpath way,When the very babies despise great A,And swallow, with supercilious smiles,Whole sentences, like young crocodiles?Who goes to-day by the footpath way,Waiting for good things until he can pay,When with mortgage and loan and instal-ment plan,Life is let furnished to every man?Who goes to-day by the footpath way,When Moses made awful mistakes, theysay,And the story of all that began and isNever happened according to Genesis?Who goes to-day by the footpath way,Alone and straitened, with care and de-lay,When the world, grown wiser by grace ofGod,Rolls assured toward heaven on the cause-way broad?= .When things are thus since they must be so,And nobody stands by himself, you know,And none may jog onward, and none mayfallBut by force that prevails in the general?And what are the odds of tear or smile,Or whether we merrily leap the stileOr tumble helpless, since over we must,And the end of all is the "dust to dust?"Well,—take it so; yet the footpath wayDoth its line through every thoroughfarelay;The tramp of the legion may seem to efface,But the single treading hath left its trace.You may rush by steam with a seven-leaguestride,Yet the footpath way's in the railroadride;Each goes his own gait, and clears his ownstiles,And lives by inches, while driven by miles.You may scorn your penny, and spend yourpound,No less't will appear, when the day comesround,That farthing by farthing the score wasmade,And unto the uttermost shall be paid.And Moses will stand when philosophiesdrop,And Huxley and Darwin have shut upshop;For whatever you jump, and however youjog,You can't get away from the decalogue.Then with faith and fear in the footpathway,And with steadfast cheer, trudge on, wesay;For if ever earth into the kingdom rolls,'T will be by the saving of single souls!

UP A TREE

"Oh dear, what can the matter be?Two old women got up in an apple-tree:One came down,And the other stayed up till Saturday."I suppose you wonder how it should beThat two old ladies got up in a tree:Did you never chance the exploit to see?Perhaps you have noticed pussy-cat go,With a wrathful look, and a way notslow,And a tail very big, and a back up—so?Well, that is the type of the thing I mean;And the apple-bearer, since earth wasgreen,The tree of our trouble hath always been.So when "human warious" fails to agree,There stands the old stem of iniquity,And one or both will be "up a tree."Each in her style: some are stately andstiff;Some hiss and spit, and are up in a whiff;And some hunch along in a moody miff.It does n't much matter, however it be;The best of people may get up the tree;The question is, when they 'll come down,you see!An offenseless one will descend straightway;One half in the wrong for a while may stay;Clear curstness will roost till the judgmentday!

THE CROOKED MAN

"There was a crooked man,And he went a crooked mile;He found a crooked sixpenceAgainst a crooked stile:He bought a crooked cat,Which caught a crooked mouse;And they all lived togetherIn a little crooked house."Once begin with a crook,You 'll go on with a crook;Crooked ways, crooked luck, crooked peo-ple.Crooked eyes, crooked mind,Crooked guideposts will find;Yes, a crook in the very church-steeple!The first mile you makeThe initial will takeFor all the long leagues that shall follow:Right and left, fork and swerve,Any turn that will serve,Up and down, betwixt hummock and hol-low.If you pause at a stileOr a fence for a while,Some twist must compel or invite you:Even sin, I've a doubt,Were it straight out and out,Could hardly persuade or delight you.And a shave, or a bend,Or a nick, must commend,For you, every quarter and nickel:Right pure from the mint,There were no magic in'tYour trick-loving finger to tickle.Crooked money will buyBut a crook or a lie,Whatever the ware that you deal inYour position in life,Your companions, your wife,Or even a playfellow felineAnd as thief catches thiefIn the common belief,Be the creature a cat or a woman,The crooked shall stillFind the crooked at will,And you 'll see the old saw sayeth true, man.In kin, neighbors, house,In a servant or mouse,She will always put paw on her likeness:The same rule runs through,For the false and the true,—Straight to straight, and oblique to oblique-ness.So together, you see,As you build, you shall be,Every line of the mould in the casting;And a nice little worldYou 'll have made, when you 'vecurledAnd squirmed to your state everlasting!

THE FOUR WINDS

"When the wind is in the east,'T is neither good for man nor beast;When the wind is in the north,The skillful fisher goes not forth;When the wind is in the south,It blows the bait in the fishes' mouth;When the wind is in the west,Then't is at the very best."Life, like the earth, to the east doth run,Turning her face to the face of the sun.The wind that is contrary, as she goes,Is always the bitterest wind that blows;Smiting the kiss of the shining away,And beating backward the beautiful day.The wind that comes from the icy poleShutteth up hope in the human soul;Chiding the heart, and forbidding the will,And blasting our very beginnings with ill.Oh, the wind of the north, on its terriblepath,Is the wind of wreck, and despair, andwrath!The breath that blows from the climes ofease,From the isles of spice and the bread-fruittrees,With its unearned flavors to fill the mouth;The zephyr that sends from the idle southIts soft beguiling and treacherous touch,—Let the soul in her struggle be shy ofsuch!But the wind that springs from the hind-ward side,And as earth rolls under sweeps over thetide;The gust that is vigorous, brave, and true,Backing you up in whatever you do,Keen and impelling, the wind of the west,—Ah, well saith the legend, that breeze is thebest.

THE PIPER AND THE COW

"There was a piper had a cow,And he had naught to give her:So he took up his pipes, and he played her a tune,Consider, cow,—consider!The cow considered very well,And gave the piper a penny;And bade him play the other tune,—Corn-rigs are bonny."Good folks of the pen, I am sure you 'llagreeThat author and publisher here we may see:The Piper plays tunes 'twixt the world andthe Cow,And he has, at the same time, the care ofthe mow:When the crop in the barn shows but littleto feed her,To the Cow quoth the Piper, Consider, con-sider!The Cow is a creature that cheweth the cud;Recalleth the hill-sides, with daisies be-stud,The sweet running waters, the breezes atplay,While mournfully munching the last lock ofhay:All the world that she knoweth of fra-grance and stirSealeth up in those dry stems its juices forher.So it cometh, forsooth, that because she canchewPeople think it is all she can hunger to do:Neither Public nor Piper doth fully allowFor the interdependence of mood and ofmow,Or see how perplexing it may be, alas,For a Oow to consider between hay andgrass!Howbeit, if Mooly considereth well,And giveth the Piper good milk for to sell,The Piper he maketh his own modestpenny,—Just one at a time, till he hath a greatmany;And during the while this is coming to passFresh fodder grows plenty, and delicategrass.Once more life's a pasture; the season isJune;The pipes play up cheerly the bonny-rigtune;The Cow is in clover; the buttercups holdRight up to her chin their probation ofgold;But she knows, all the same, how't will bewhen they bid herThe next year, as last year, Consider, con-sider!

BEHIND THE LOG

"Pussy sits behind the log; how can she be fair?Then comes in the little dog: Pussy, are you there?So, so, dear mistress pussy, pray tell me how you do!I thank you, little dog, I am very well just now."Behind the log, in the reek and mould,How many poor things are there,Who else might be sought, and caressed,and told,So tenderly, they were fair!Behind the log, ah, behind the log,Such only can tell us howThey are glad of a word from a little dogWho pauses to say Bow-wow!

SHOE AND FIDDLE

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!My dame has lost her shoe;My master's lost his fiddlestick,And does n't know what to do."Who's crowing, I wonder, to spread sucha scandalOf the blithe-tripping dame who hathdropped off her sandal,And seemeth all sad and forlornly toshirk,Where she used, in good hmnor, to danceat her work?Perhaps honest chanticleer simply maygloryIn faithfully giving both sides of the story;And scorning the loss of the lady to tellWithout owning the miss of the master aswell.For how, when the fiddlestick 's gone, canbe playedThe music, without which the dancing isstayed?When the man 's out of tune, the dearwoman, 't is plain,Must wait till he graciously strikes up again.Let him hunt for his bow, then, and rosin ittoo,(If really he'd like to be told what to do;)And I think, with the fiddling, 't will surelybe foundAll else will come right for the merry-go-round!