Mother Goose for Grown Folks

SWING, SWONG!

"Swing, Swong!The days are long!Up hill, and down dale;Butter is made in every vale."Your day will come, though it arrive butslowly;There 's cream in all life, set howeverlowly;And if, as Goose philosophy, you doubtit,Hear what the little hen found out aboutit:—"Kroo! kroo! I've cramp in my legs,Sitting so long atop of my eggs;Never a minute for rest to snatch;I wonder when they are going to hatch!Cluck! cluck! listen! sleep!Down in the nest there's a stir and apeep.Everything comes to its luck some day;I've got chickens! What will folks say?"

SHUTTLECOCK

"Here we go up, up, up,And here we go down, down, downy;Here we go backward and forward,And here we go round, round, roundy."Battledore and shuttlecock!Hither, and thither, and yon:Never a flight without a knock,And so the world goes on.Shuttlecock and battledore!When will it all be done,—The life of the buffet and beat be o'er,And the life of the wings begun?

THE MAN IN THE WILDERNESS

"The man in the wilderness, he asked meHow many strawberries grew in the sea:I answered him, as I thought good,As many red herrings as grew in the wood."Of the face of the world they have foundit outBy what they must fetch and do;Of the heart of the world they dispute anddoubt,And yet it is just as true.Your fish is wholesome, and live, and clean,And my little fruit is fair;Though the earth's good Maker might nevermeanThat both should be everywhere.And all for the want of a thought like this,It comes, and it can but be,That many a soul 's in the wilderness,And many adrift at sea.

PRAE AND POST

"The man in the moonCame down too soonTo inquire the way to Norwich;The man in the south,He burnt his mouthWith eating cold plum porridge."The moony men are always in a hurryThat puts sedater people in a flurry,They get their theories through other mediaThan facts of gazetteer or cyclopaedia;And then, by some unknown, preposterousgateway,Rush forth to claim the realizing straight-way.Just think of lighting on a foreign planet,Asking for Norwich before folks began it!But then, those sleepy souls at the equatorLose just as much, you see, by startinglater;Never strike in while anything is hot,—Wait till the porridge is all out o' thepot;—And through their indolence and easy fool-ingBurn their mouths, figuratively, in the cool-ing!Too soon, too slow, there's nothing comesout even;The very sun that travels through theheavenHeels o'er the line, now this way and nowthat,And only twice a year can hit it pat.Even your two eyes make a parallax,And might mislead you on two differenttracks;Between them both, the moral, I suppose,Is that each man should follow his ownnose!

QUITE CONTRARY

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,How does your garden grow?With silver bells, and cockle shells,And tulips, all of a row."Prithee, tell me, Mistress Mary,Whence this rhyme of "quite contrary"?Why should Mother Goose, beholdingAll these pleasant blooms unfolding,—Every prim and pretty borderStanding in such shining order,—Looking o'er the lovely rows,Ask you "how your garden grows"?Mary, so precise and chary,Are you, anyhow, contrary?While these sweetly perfect linesNod their gentle countersigns,Spending all your strength on this,Lest the least thing grow amiss,Weareth some unseen parterreQuite a different kind of air?Through your hating of a weedRuns there any ill to seed,—Thistle-blow of petulance,Bitter blade of blame, perchance,Or a flaunting stem of pride,In that other garden-side?Mary, in our women-heartsSpring such curious counterparts!Each her home-plot watching wary,Lest the faultless order varyBy the dropping of a leaf,Or a blossom come to griefFrom the blasting of the storm,Or the eating of a worm,Let us both be certain, Mary,Nothing dearer goes contrary!

ALONG, LONG, LONG

"As I was going along, long, long,A singing a comical song, song, song,The lane that I went was so long, long, long,And the song that I sung was so long, long, long,And so I went singing along."It 's all along, and along,For the earth is bonny, and glad, and wide,And we 're free to wander, and free to bide,And we travel with a song.It's long, it's wearily long!For the path is narrowed to only a lane;And we 've sung it over and over again,That old, monotonous song.Nay, let us be thankful and strong,That the breath of life is as long as the day,And the song is as long as the weariful way,And so, we 'll go singing along!

FINIS

(MOTHER GOOSE, INTERLINEATED.)The white dove sat on the castle wall,I bent my bow, and shoot her I shall,"—(The fair bird, truth, and her meanings;)"I put her in my glove, both feathers andall;"(The pretty plumes that her flight let fall;For I bound in a book my gleanings:)"I laid my bridle upon the shelf,—If you want any more, you may sing ityourself!"(It's all in the wits and the weenings!)

CONCLUSION

(EDITORIAL.)Doubtless I might go on to quote,With added paraphrase and note,Precept on precept, line on line,To instance here the fact divineThat of her children, far and wide,Wisdom is always justified.Yet why oppress with proof of that,Since "verbum sapienti sat"?Suffice it to have struck the vein,And shown some specimens of ore;If any seek for further gain,The mine still holds abundance more.A mental pickaxe and a bigginAre all you need to go to diggin'.For, as the Swedish seer contends,All things comprise an inner sense;There's nothing we can write or say,In howsoever simple way,But seems a body, built to hideThe soul that straightway is supplied;And many a fool, and prophet too,Hath spoken wiser than he knew.One parting word, and I am gone:If I 've prevailed to make you seeThese things as they appear to me,Then have I proved my Goose a SwanAnd I, small fledgling of the line,Yet proud to bear the ancient name,May, for this ancestress of mine,Claim place upon the page of fame;That not a bard of Saxon tongueMore true to nature ever sung:More surely soothed, more deeply taught,Or passing fact more keenly caught;And that—exalted side by sideWith him of Avon, in the prideAnd love of millions—we should layThe tribute at her feet to-dayThat owns her, in this latter age,Goose, truly,—but, in savor, Sage!

1

E. E. Hale's Brick Moon: likewise Jules Verne's Projectile.