Rhymes for the Young Folk

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 see
Which 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 why
They 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

I

Down 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 wings
Are crossing the sapphire bay,
And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale
Holds 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 floor
To sing their lullaby.

II

Down on the shore, on the stormy shore!
Beset by a growling sea,
Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep
Like wolves up a traveller's tree:
Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast
Blows the curlew off, with a screech;
Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the roots,