Chapter III

Seven-and-seventy mothers,
This side of the sea,
Said, “We know some others
Quite as nice as he!”
Seven-and-seventy brothers
Said, “And so do we!”
Seven-and-seventy sisters,
Hearing this acclaim,
Said to those young misters,
“We think just the same.”

THE SHIP THAT SAILED INTO THE SUN

They said my brother’s ship went down,
Down into the sea,
Because a storm came on to drown
The biggest ships that be;
But I saw the ship, when he went away;
I saw it pass, and pass;
The tide was low, I went out to play,
The sea was all like glass;
The ship sailed straight into the sun,
Half of a ball of gold--
Onward it went till it touched the sun--
I saw the ship take hold!

But soon I saw them both no more,
The sun and the ship together,
For the wind began to hoot and to roar,
And there was stormy weather.
Yet every day the golden ball
Rests on the edge of the sky;
The sun it is, with the ship and all,
For the ship sailed into the golden ball
Across the edge of the sky.

THE YOUNG EXILE

Little Boy
From Savoy,
With the slouch-sandalled feet,
With the pipe in your hand,
To play on, as you stand
In the long, stony, stupid, stumbling street;
I heard a noise just now,
And I got up from my desk,
Saying, “What can be the row?”
For the dogs went bow-wow,
And I-cannot-tell-you-how
Went your music; and the whole thing was grotesque.
Then I saw you, picturesque,
In the weather,
With a feather
In your rough wide-awake,
And a bowl,
Poor young soul!
In your hand for the coppers you might take;
And the handsome face you had,
Little lad,
Olive skin of the South,
Large eyes and well-set mouth,
I admired very much, yes, I did;
And I wished you back again
To your dear native plain
On the loose with a marmot or a kid;
With your father, and a bag full of money,
In a cottage all your own
Pretty much got up of stone,
And with flocks
In the rocks
At your call, and the maids,
Blue-kirtled, in the shades,
And a score of beehives very full of honey!

THE COMING STORM

The tree-tops rustle, the tree-tops wave,
They hustle, they bustle; and, down in a cave,
The winds are murmuring, ready to rave.

The skies are dimming; the birds fly low,
Skimming and swimming, their wings are slow;
They float, they are carried, they scarcely go.

The dead leaves hurry; the waters, too,
Flurry and scurry; as if they knew
A storm was at hand; the smoke is blue.

THE DISCONTENTED YEW-TREE

A Dark-green prickly yew one night
Peeped round on the trees of the forest,
And said, “_Their_ leaves are smooth and bright,
My lot is the worst and poorest:

I wish I had golden leaves,” said the yew;
And lo, when the morning came,
He found his wish had come suddenly true,
For his branches were all aflame.

Now, by came a Jew, with a bag on his back,
Who cried, “I’ll be rich to-day!”
He stripped the boughs, and, filling his sack
With the yellow leaves, walked away!

The yew was as vexed as a tree could be,
And grieved as a yew-tree grieves,
And sighed, “If Heaven would but pity me,
And grant me crystal leaves!”

Then crystal leaves crept over the boughs;
Said the yew, “Now am I not gay?”
But a hailstorm hurricane soon arose
And broke every leaf away!

So he mended his wish yet once again,--
“Of my pride I do now repent;
Give me fresh green leaves, quite smooth and plain,
And I will be content.”

In the morning he woke in smooth green leaf,
Saying, “This is a sensible plan;
The storm will not bring my beauty to grief,
Or the greediness of man.”

But the world has goats as well as men,
And one came snuffing past,
Which ate of the green leaves a million and ten,
Not having broken his fast.

O then the yew-tree groaned aloud,
“What folly was mine, alack!
I was discontented, and I was proud--
O give me my old leaves back!”

So, when daylight broke, he was dark, dark green,
And prickly as before!--
The other trees mocked, “Such a sight to be seen!
To be near him makes one sore!”
The south wind whispered his leaves between,
“Be thankful, and change no more!

“The thing you are is always the thing
That you had better be”--
But the north wind said, with a gallant fling,
“The foolish, weak yew-tree!

“What if he blundered twice or thrice?
There’s a turn to the longest lane;
And everything must have its price--
Poor faulterer, try again!”

THE LITTLE BROTHER

Little brother in a cot,
Baby, baby!
Shall he have a pleasant lot?
Maybe, maybe!

Little brother in a nap,
Baby, baby!
Bless his tiny little cap,
Noise far away be!

With a rattle in his hand,
Baby, baby!
Dreaming--who can understand
Dreams like this, what they be?

When he wakes kiss him twice,
Then talk and gay be;
Little cheeks soft and nice,
Baby, baby!

Pretty little pouting boy,
Baby, baby!
Let his life, with sweet and toy,
Pleasure all and play be.

Seven white angels watching here,
Baby, baby!
Pray be kind to baby dear,
Pray be, pray be!

Little brother in a cot,
Baby, baby!
His shall be a pleasant lot--
_Must_, not may be!

CUCKOO IN THE PEAR-TREE

The Cuckoo sat in the old pear-tree.
Cuckoo!
Raining or snowing, nought cared he.
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, nought cared he.

The Cuckoo flew over a housetop nigh.
Cuckoo!
“Dear, are you at home, for here am I?
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, here am I.”

“I dare not open the door to you.
Cuckoo!
Perhaps you are not the right cuckoo?
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, the right Cuckoo!”

“I am the right Cuckoo, the proper one.
Cuckoo!
For I am my father’s only son,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo, his only son.”

“If you are your father’s only son--
Cuckoo!
The bobbin pull tightly,
Come through the door lightly--
Cuckoo!

If you are your father’s only son--
Cuckoo!
It must be you, the only one--
Cuckoo, cuckoo, my own Cuckoo!
Cuckoo!”

MADCAP

Swift, lithe, plastical;
High-fantastical
In feats gymnastical;
Enthusiastical;

She is a glorious
Romp; victorious;
Is uproarious
Too censorious?

She is a mighty,
Elfy, spritey,
Highty-tighty
Ma’mselle Flighty.

The gayest wench, if
Her mood’s extensive;
But full of sense, if
Her mood is pensive.

What resolution
In execution!
“O mum,” says Susan,
“She is a Rooshian!”

But when she’s graver
No girl is braver
In her behaviour,
As I’m a shaver!

Bid Mystery pack again!
With sudden tack again,
My Romp is back again,
Madcap, clack again!

When I am priming
Myself for rhyming
Of Jove or Hymen,
That girl is climbing,

Athletic, able,
The chairs, the table,
An admirable
Gymnastic Babel!

It makes me shiver
In lungs and liver,
To look! However,
Three cheers I give her.

THE BEWITCHED TOYS; OR, QUEEN MAB IN CHILD-WORLD.

I

Here comes Queen Mab in her coach-and-six!
Look out for mischievous fairy tricks!
Look out, good girls! Look out, brave boys!
I know she comes to bewitch your toys!
Hither she floats, like the down of a thistle!--
So mind the pegtop; and mind the hoop;
Bring down the kite with a sudden swoop;
Hide the popgun; and plug up the whistle;
But don’t say Dolly’s a-bed with the croup:
For, if you tell her a fib, my dear,
She’ll fasten the door-key to your ear!

II

Then the Kite went flying up to the Moon,
And the Man with the Sticks, who lives up there,
Kick’d it through with his clouted shoon,
And the tail hung dangling down in the air.

But Harry wouldn’t let go the string,
Although it nearly broke with the strain;
Said he: “Well, this is a comical thing,
But the kite is mine, and I’ll have it again!”

“Now whistle three times,” cried cunning Nell,
“And over your shoulder throw your shoe,
And pull once more, and say this spell:
FUSTUMFUNNIDOSTANTARABOO!”

But Harry made a mistake in the charm,
Saying, “FUSTUMFUNNIDOSTANTABOORACK!”
And a dreadful pain went all up his arm,
And he fell down, shouting, right on his back.

Then Nell took hold, and pulled the string,
And the kite came down, all safe and sound,
And a piece of the moon away did bring,
Which you may have for a silver pound!