Rhymes for the Young Folk
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Rhymes for the Young Folk
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William Allingham
Rhymes for the Young Folk
THE FAIRIES
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain-lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!THE ELF SINGING
An Elf sat on a twig,He was not very big,He sang a little song,He did not think it wrong;But he was on a Wizard's ground,Who hated all sweet sound.Elf, Elf,Take care of yourself!He's coming behind you,To seize you and bind you,And stifle your song.The Wizard! the Wizard!He changes his shapeIn crawling along,An ugly old ape,A poisonous lizard,A spotted spider,A wormy glider,The Wizard! the Wizard!He's up on the bough,He'll bite through your gizzardHe's close to you now!The Elf went on with his song,It grew more clear and strong,It lifted him into air,He floated singing away,With rainbows in his hair;While the Wizard-worm from his creepMade a sudden leap,Fell down into a hole,And, ere his magic word he could say,Was eaten up by a Mole.THE FAIRY KING
"High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits."The Fairy King was old.He met the Witch of the Wold."Ah ha, King!" quoth she,"Now thou art old like me.""Nay, Witch!" quoth he,"I am not old like thee."The King took off his crown,It almost bent him down;His age was too greatTo carry such a weight."Give it here!" she said,And clapt it on her head.Crown sank to ground;The Witch no more was found.Then sweet spring-songs were sung,The Fairy King grew young,His crown was made of flowers,He lived in woods and bowers.CHORUS OF FAIRIES
Golden, golden,Light unfolding,Busily, merrily, work and play,In flowery meadows,And forest shadows,All the length of a Summer day!All the length of a Summer day!Sprightly, lightly,Sing we rightly,Moments brightly hurry away;Fruit-tree blossoms,And roses' bosoms, —Clear blue sky of a Summer day!Dear blue sky of a Summer day!Springlets, brooklets,Greeny nooklets,Hill and Valley, and salt sea-spray,Comrade rovers,Fairy lovers, —All the length of a Summer dayAll the livelong Summer day!ROBIN REDBREAST
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!For Summer's nearly done;The garden smiling faintly,Cool breezes in the sun;Our Thrushes now are silent,Our Swallows flown away, —But Robin's here, in coat of brown,With ruddy breast-knot gay.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!Robin singing sweetlyIn the falling of the year.Bright yellow, red, and orange,The leaves come down in hosts;The trees are Indian Princes,But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;The scanty pears and applesHang russet on the bough,It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,'Twill soon be Winter now.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!And welaway! my Robin,For pinching times are near.The fireside for the Cricket,The wheatstack for the Mouse,When trembling night-winds whistleAnd moan all round the house;The frosty ways like iron,The branches plumed with snow, —Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,Where can poor Robin go?Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear,And a crumb of bread for Robin,His little heart to cheer.AMY MARGARET
Amy Margaret's five years old,Amy Margaret's hair is gold,Dearer twenty-thousand-foldThan gold, is Amy Margaret."Amy" is friend, is "Margaret"The pearl for crown or carkanet?Or peeping daisy, Summer's pet?Which are you, Amy Margaret?A friend, a daisy, and a pearl;A kindly, simple, precious girl, —Such, howsoe'er the world may twirl,Be ever, – Amy Margaret!JINGLE, JANGLE!
Jingle, jangle!Riot and wrangle!What shall we doWith people like you?Here's Jingle!There's Jangle!Here's Riot!There's Wrangle!Never was seen such a turbulent crew!You, north must goTo a hut of snow;You, south, in a trice,To an island of spice;You, off to PersiaAnd sit on a hill,You, to that chairAnd be five minutes' still!DREAMING
A strange little DreamOn a long star-beamRan down from the midnight skies,To curly-hair'd FredAsleep in his bed,With the lids on his merry blue eyes.Under each lidThe thin Dream slid,And spread to a picture inside,A new World there,Most strange and rare,Tho' just by our garden-side.Rivers and Rocks,And a Treasure-Box,And Floating in Air without wings,And the Speaking Beast,And a Royal Feast,My chair beside the King's;A Land of Flowers,And of lofty TowersCarved over in marble whiteWith living ShapesOf Panthers and ApesThat gambol in ceaseless flight;And a Cellar smallWith its Cave in the WallStretching many a mile underground!And the Rope from the Moon! —Fred woke too soon,For its end could never be found.I LOVE YOU, DEAR
I love you, Dear, I love you, Dear,You can't think how I love you, Dear!Supposing IWere a Butterfly,I'd waver around and above you, Dear.A long way off I spied you, Dear,No bonnet or hat could hide you, Dear,If I were a Bird,Believe my word,I'd sing every day beside you, Dear.When you're away I miss you, Dear,And now you're here I'll kiss you, Dear,And beg you will takeThis flow'r for my sake,And my love along with this, you Dear!
SEASONS
In Spring-time, the Forest,In Summer, the Sea,In Autumn, the Mountains,In Winter, – ah me!How gay, the old branchesA-swarm with new buds,The primrose and bluebellFresh-blown in the woods,All green things unfolding,Where merry birds sing!I love in the WoodlandsTo wander in Spring.What joy, when the Sea-waves,In mirth and in might,Spread purple in shadow,Flash white into light!The gale fills the sail,And the gull flies away;In crimson and goldSets the long Summer Day.O pride! on the MountainsTo leave earth below;The great slopes of heather,One broad purple glow;The loud-roaring torrentLeaps, bound after bound,To plains of gold Autumn,With mist creeping roundAh, Wind, is it Winter?Yes, Winter is here;With snow on the meadow,And ice on the mere.The daylight is short,But the firelight is long;Our skating's good sport;Then story and song.In Spring-time, the Forest,In Summer, the Sea,In Autumn, the Mountains, —And Winter has glee.THE CAT AND THE DOG
There once lived a Man, a Cat, and a Dog,And the Man built a house with stone and log."If you'll help to take care of this house with me,One indoors, one out, your places must be."Said both together, "Indoors I'll stay!"And they argued the matter for half-a-day."Come, let us sing for it!" purrs the Cat;"No!" barks the Dog, "I won't do that.""Come, let us fight for it!" growls Bow-wow;"Nay!" says Pussy, "mee-ow, mee-ow!""Well, let us race for it!" – said and done.The course is mark'd out, and away they run.Puss bounded off; the Dog ran fast;Quickly was Puss overtaken and pass'd;But a Beggar who under the hedge did lieStruck the poor Dog as he gallop'd byA blow with his staff, and lessen'd his paceTo a limp: so Pussy won the race.The Beggar went on his way to beg;Dog was cured of his limping leg;And Cat keeps the inside of the house,Watching it well from rat and mouse,Dog keeps the outside, ever since then,And always barks at beggar-men.HERE AND THERE
(A JUVENILE CHORUS.)
THE BIRD
"Birdie, Birdie, will you pet?Summer-time is far away yet,You'll have silken quilts and a velvet bed,And a pillow of satin for your head!""I'd rather sleep in the ivy wall;No rain comes through, tho' I hear it fall;The sun peeps gay at dawn of day,And I sing, and wing away, away!""O Birdie, Birdie, will you pet?Diamond-stones and amber and jetWe'll string for a necklace fair and fineTo please this pretty bird of mine!""O thanks for diamonds, and thanks for jet,But here is something daintier yet, —A feather-necklace round and round,That I wouldn't sell for a thousand pound!""O Birdie, Birdie, won't you pet?We'll buy you a dish of silver fret,A golden cup and an ivory seat,And carpets soft beneath your feet!""Can running water be drunk from gold?Can a silver dish the forest hold?A rocking twig is the finest chair,And the softest paths lie through the air, —Good-bye, good-bye to my lady fair!"WISHING
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose,A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring!The stooping boughs above me,The wandering bee to love me,The fern and moss to creep across,And the Elm-tree for our king!Nay – stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree,A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!The winds would set them dancing,The sun and moonshine glancing,The Birds would house among the boughs,And sweetly sing!O – no! I wish I were a Robin,A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;Through forest, field, or garden,And ask no leave or pardon,Till Winter comes with icy thumbsTo ruffle up our wing.Well – tell! Where should I fly to,Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?Before a day was over,Home comes the rover,For Mother's kiss, – sweeter thisThan any other thing!I SAW A LITTLE BIRDIE FLY
I saw a little Birdie fly,Merrily piping came he;"Whom d'ye sing to, Bird?" said I;"Sing? – I sing to Amy!""Very sweet you sing," I said;"Then," quoth he, "to pay me,Give one little crumb of bread,A little smile from Amy.""Just," he sings, "one little smile;O, a frown would slay me!Thanks, and now I'm gone awhile, —Fare-you-well, dear Amy!"A MOUNTAIN ROUND
(Tyrol.)
THE LEPRACAUN;
OR,
FAIRY SHOEMAKER
ILittle Cowboy, what have you heard,Up on the lonely rath's green mound?Only the plaintive yellow birdSighing in sultry fields around,Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee! —Only the grasshopper and the bee? —"Tip-tap, rip-rap,Tick-a-tack-too!Scarlet leather sewn together,This will make a shoe.Left, right, pull it tight;Summer days are warm;Underground in winter,Laughing at the storm!"Lay your ear close to the hill.Do you not catch the tiny clamour,Busy click of an Elfin hammer,Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrillAs he merrily plies his trade?He's a spanAnd a quarter in height.Get him in sight, hold him tight,And you're a madeMan!IIYou watch your cattle the summer day,Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay:How would you like to roll in your carriage,Look for a Duchess's daughter in marriage?Seize the Shoemaker – then you may!"Big boots a-hunting,Sandals in the hall,White for a wedding-feast,Pink for a ball.This way, that way,So we make a shoe;Getting rich every stitch,Tick-tack-too!"Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocksThis keen miser-fairy hath,Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,And where the cormorants build;From times of oldGuarded by him;Each of them fill'dFull to the brimWith gold!IIII caught him at work one day, myself,In the castle-ditch where foxglove grows, —A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,Silver buckles to his hose,Leather apron-shoe in his lap —"Rip-rap, tip-tap,Tack-tack-too!(A green cricket on my cap!Away the moth flew!)Buskins for a fairy prince,Brogues for his son, —Pay me well, pay me well,When the job is done!"The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.I stared at him, he stared at me;"Servant, Sir!" "Humph!" says he,And pull'd a snuff-box out.He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,The queer little Lepracaun;Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace,Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,And, while I sneezed,Was gone!Raths, very ancient forts or entrenched dwelling-places, usually on hills; the remains of these are common in Ireland, and resemble what are called "Rings" in England.
Yellow bird, the yellow bunting, or "yorlin."
YES OR NO?
Yes or No?Stay or Go?He never can tell, he never will know!We must not wait,We'll all be late,While Barnaby puzzles his queer little pate!What do you say?Off and away!Make up your mind to go or to stay.Fix on your plan,Step out like a man,And follow your nose as fast as you can!SLEEPING
Do all your sleeping at night,For then niddy-noddy is right;But awake you must keep,And it won't do to sleep,In the middle of broad daylight.The sun at the end of the dayTakes his mighty great candle away;A curtain on highIs drawn over the sky,And the stars peep thro' if they may.There's the curtain of night over all,There's our own window-curtain so small,And least in their size,Over Emily's eyesHer fringed little eyelids will fall.She kneels at the side of her bed,And softly her prayers are said;Now, a kiss, my Dear;Come, Angels, near,And keep watch round the little one's bed.A SWING SONG
Swing, swing,Sing, sing,Here's my throne, and I am a King!Swing, sing,Swing, sing,Farewell earth, for I'm on the wing!Low, high,Here I fly,Like a bird through sunny sky;Free, free,Over the lea,Over the mountain, over the sea!Up, down,Up and down,Which is the way to London Town?Where, where?Up in the air,Close your eyes, and now you are there!Soon, soon,Afternoon,Over the sunset, over the moon;Far, far,Over all bar,Sweeping on from star to star!No, no,Low, low,Sweeping daisies with my toe.Slow, slow,To and fro,Slow —slow —slow —slow.BIRDS' NAMES
Of Creatures with Feathers, come let us seeWhich have names like you and me.Hook-nosed Poll, that thinks herself pretty,Everyone knows, of all birds most witty.Friendly Daw, in suit of gray,Ask him his name, and 'Jack!' he'll say.Pert Philip Sparrow hopping you meet,"Philip! Philip!" – in garden and street.Bold Robin Redbreast perches near,And sings his best in the fall of the year.Grave Madge Owlet shuns the light,And shouts "hoo! hoo!" in the woods at night.Nightingale sweet, that May loves well,Old Poets have call'd her Philomel,But Philomelus, he sings best,While she sits listening in her nest.Darting Martin! – tell me whyThey call you Martin, I know not, I;Martin the black, under cottage eaves,Martin the small, in sandy caves.Merry Willy Wagtail, what runs he takes!Wherever he stops, his tail he shakes.Head and tail little Jenny Wren perks,As in and out of the hedge she jerks.Brisk Tom Tit, the lover of trees,Picks-off every fly and grub he sees.Mag, the cunning chattering Pie,Builds her home in a tree-top high, —Mag, you're a terrible thief, O fie!Tom and Philip and Jenny and Polly,Madge and Martin and Robin and Willy,Philomelus and friendly Jack, —Mag the rogue, half-white, half-black,Stole an egg from every Bird;Such an uproar was never heard;All of them flew upon Mag together,And pluck'd her naked of every feather."You're not a Bird!" they told her then,"You may go away and live among men!"DOWN ON THE SHORE
IDown on the shore, on the sunny shore!Where the salt smell cheers the land;Where the tide moves bright under boundless light,And the surge on the glittering strand;Where the children wade in the shallow pools,Or run from the froth in play;While the swift little boats with milk-white wingsAre crossing the sapphire bay,And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate galeHolds proudly on her way;Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry,And asleep, hard by, the fishermen lie,Under the tent of the warm blue sky,With the hushing wave on its golden floorTo sing their lullaby.IIDown on the shore, on the stormy shore!Beset by a growling sea,Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steepLike wolves up a traveller's tree:Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blastBlows the curlew off, with a screech;Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the roots,Is flung out of fishes' reach;And the tall ship rolls on the hidden shoals,And scatters her planks on the beach;Where slate and straw through the village spin,And a cottage fronts the fiercest dinWith a sailor's wife sitting sad within,Hearkening the wind and the water's roar,Till at last her tears begin.THE BUBBLE
See, the pretty Planet!Floating sphere!Faintest breeze will fan itFar or near;World as light as feather;Moonshine rays,Rainbow tints, together,As it plays;Drooping, sinking, failing,Nigh to earth,Mounting, whirling, sailing,Full of mirth;Life there, welling, flowing,Waving round;Pictures coming, going,Without sound.Quick now! be this airyGlobe repell'd!Never can the fairyStar be held.Touch'd – it in a twinkleDisappears!Leaving but a sprinkle,As of tears.NICK SPENCE
Nick Spence, Nick Spence,Sold the Cow for sixpence!When his Master scolded him,Nicky didn't care.Put him in the farmyard,The stableyard, the stackyard,Send him to the pigsty,And Johnny to the fair!AMBITION
The Sea! as smooth as silk,And the froth of it like new milk,And the sky a wonderful blue,The cliff harebells have it too,And scatter'd all over the shoreA thousand Children or more!Suppose we join, one-will'd,A City of Sand to build,With a rampart broad and strongFrom rock to rock along,Solid and firm enoughTo last till the sea grows roughAnd the days turn chilly and short,The end of our seaside sport,When all must bundle and packAnd swift in the train go back,Big folk and little folk,To London lamps and smoke?Let's draw out our plan to-night,Begin it with morning light.We'll bring all the Children togetherAnd build in the sweet sunny weather.What use in a House of Sand?But a City – that would be grand!O yes, I am sure it will stand!And I, who first thought of the thing,Perhaps they will make me King?THE BALL
All men, black, brown, red, yellow, whiteAre brethren in their Father's sight.To do each other good is right,But not to wrangle, steal, or fight.A thousand millions, young and old,Some in the heat, some in the cold,Upon this Ball of Earth are roll'dAround the Sun's great flame of gold.And this great Sun is like indeedOne daisy in a daisied mead;For God's power doth all thought exceed.And of us also He takes heed.RIDING
His Lordship's SteedOf a noble breedIs trotting it fleetly, fleetly,Her Ladyship's pony,Sleek and bonny,Cantering neatly, neatly.How shall they passThe Turf-Cadger's Ass,Creels and all, creels and all?Man on him bumping,Shouting and thumping,Heels and all, heels and all!Lane is not wide,A hedge on each side,The Ass is beginning to bray;"Now," says my Lord,With an angry word,"Fellow, get out of the way!""Ha!" says the Cadger,As bold as a badger,"This way is my way too!"Says the Lady mild,And sweetly smiled,"My Friend, that's perfectly true."The Cadger look'd round,Then jump'd to the ground,And into the hedge pull'd Neddy."O thank you!" says she,"Ax pardon!" says he,And touch'd his old hat to the Lady.His Lordship's SteedOf a noble breedWent trotting it fleetly, fleetly,Her Ladyship's pony,Sleek and bonnyCantering neatly, neatly.The Cadger he rodeAs well as he could,Heels and all, heels and all,Jolting and bumping,Shouting and thumping,Creels and all, creels and all.TOM CRICKET
Tom Cricket he sat in his hole in the wall,Close to the kitchen fire,Up and down ran the Cockroaches all,Red coats and black coats, great and small;"Ho, Tom! our hearts are set on a ball,And your music we desire!"Tom sat in his hole, his horns hung out,He play'd away on his fiddle;The Cockroaches danced in a rabble rout,Scrambling and scurrying all about,Tho' they had their own steps and figures no doubt,Hands across, and down the middle.Till, "Stay!" says a Fat One, – "We're no Elves,To dance all night without stopping!Now for supper!" They help'd themselves,For the servants were gone to bed; on shelvesAnd tables they quested by tens and twelves,And quick to the floor kept dropping.As a Cockroach ran by, says Tom Cricket to him,"Fetch me up a piece of potato,Good Sir! – to mix in the crowd I'm too slim."Says Jack Cockroach, "I see you are proud and prim;To eat alone is merely your whim, —Which I never will give way to!""Come down," says he, "and look out for your share!""I won't do that," says Tom Cricket.And when for another dance they care,And call upon Tom for a lively air,They find he has drawn himself back in his lair."How shameful," they cry, "How wicked!""Let's fill up the mouth of his cave with soot,Because he's behaved so badly!"They ran up and down the wall to do't;But ere half-done – a dreadful salute!In came the Cook, and the Scullion to boot,And off they all scampered madly.THE YEAR OF HARDSHIPS
January,Bitter, very!February damp, Sir;March blowsOn April's nose,May has caught the cramp, Sir;June,Without a sun or moon!July, August,Many a raw gust;September, October, November, December,Ten times worse than I ever remember.No apples, or hay, or honey, or corn;I'm sure it wasn't a fat year.Whenever you and I were born,Good-luck it wasn't in that year!A RIDDLE
What I say you'll scarce believe,Yet my words shall not deceive.I saw what seem'd a little Boy,With a face of life and joy;He danced, he ran, he nodded, he smiled,Just like any other Child;But could not speak, (how strange was this!)Or cry, or breathe, nor could I kiss,To save my life, the cherry redOf lips, not living and not dead!He was no picture, statue, doll;He was not a Child at all;He was Nothing, as near as could be,He was as real as you or me.– There he is: turn and see!