I had a little husband,

No bigger than my thumb;

I put him in a pint-pot,

And there I bade him drum.

I bought a little horse,

That galloped up and down;

I bridled him, and saddled

And sent him out of town.

I gave him little garters,

To garter up his hose,

And a little handkerchief,

To wipe his little nose.

Sing a song of sixpence,

A pocket full of rye;

Four-and-twenty blackbirds

Baked in a pie;

When the pie was opened

The birds began to sing;

Was not that a dainty dish

To set before the King?

The King was in his counting-house,

Counting out his money;

The Queen was in the parlor,

Eating bread and honey;

The maid was in the garden

Hanging out the clothes;

When up came a blackbird,

And nipped off her nose.

Little Bo-peep, she lost her sheep,

And can't tell where to find them;

Leave them alone, and they'll come home,

And bring their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,

And dreamed she heard them bleating;

When she awoke she found it a joke,

For they still were all fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook,

Determined for to find them;

She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,

For they'd left their tails behind them!

It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray,

Unto a meadow hard by—

There she espied their tails side by side,

All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye,

And over the hillocks she raced;

And tried what she could, as a shepherdess should,

That each tail should be properly placed.

What are little boys made of, made of?

What are little boys made of?

Snips and snails, and puppy-dogs' tails;

And that's what little boys are made of, made of.

What are little girls made of, made of?

What are little girls made of?

Sugar and spice, and all that's nice;

And that's what little girls are made of, made of.

A farmer went trotting

Upon his gray mare;

Bumpety, bumpety, bump!

With his daughter behind him,

So rosy and fair;

Lumpety, lumpety, lump!

A raven cried "Croak";

And they all tumbled down;

Bumpety, bumpety, bump!

The mare broke her knees,

And the farmer his crown;

Lumpety, lumpety, lump.

The mischievous raven

Flew laughing away;

Bumpety, bumpety, bump!

And vowed he would serve them

The same the next day;

Bumpety, bumpety, bump!

This is the way the ladies ride—

Saddle-a-side, saddle-a-side!

This is the way the gentlemen ride—

Sitting astride, sitting astride!

This is the way the grandmothers ride—

Bundled and tied, bundled and tied!

This is the way the babykins ride—

Snuggled inside, snuggled inside!

What does little birdie say,

In her nest at peep of day?

"Let me fly," says little birdie,

"Mother, let me fly away."

Birdie, rest a little longer,

Till the little wings are stronger.

So she rests a little longer,

Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,

In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie,

"Let me rise and fly away."

Baby, sleep a little longer,

Till the little limbs are stronger.

If she sleeps a little longer,

Baby, too, shall fly away.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Little baby, lay your head

On your pretty cradle-bed;

Shut your eye-peeps, now the day

And the light are gone away;

All the clothes are tucked in tight;

Little baby dear, good night.

Yes, my darling, well I know

How the bitter wind doth blow;

And the winter's snow and rain

Patter on the window-pane:

But they cannot come in here,

To my little baby dear;

For the window shutteth fast,

Till the stormy night is past;

And the curtains warm are spread

Round about her cradle-bed:

So till morning shineth bright,

Little baby dear, good night.

Jane Taylor

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me:

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Which is the way to Baby-Land?

Any one can tell;

Up one flight,

To your right;

Please to ring the bell.

What can you see in Baby-Land?

Little folks in white,

Downy heads,

Cradle-beds,

Faces pure and bright.

What do they do in Baby-Land?

Dream and wake and play,

Laugh and crow,

Shout and grow,

Jolly times have they.

What do they say in Baby-Land?

Why, the oddest things;

Might as well

Try to tell

What a birdie sings.

Who is the Queen of Baby-Land?

Mother kind and sweet;

And her love,

Born above,

Guides the little feet.

George Cooper

Old Mother Hubbard, she went to the cupboard,

To get her poor dog a bone.

When she got there, the cupboard was bare,

And so the poor dog had none.

She went to the baker's to buy him some bread,

But when she came back the poor dog was dead.

She went to the undertaker's to buy him a coffin,

And when she came back the dog was laughing.

She went to the draper's to buy him some linen,

And when she came back the good dog was spinning.

She went to the hosier's to buy him some hose,

And when she came back he was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtsy, the dog made a bow,

The dame said "your servant," the dog said "Bow-wow."

She went to the hatter's to buy him a hat,

And when she came back he was feeding the cat.

She went to the tailor's to buy him a coat,

And when she came back he was riding the goat.

She went to the barber's to buy him a wig,

And when she came back he was dancing a jig.

She went to the butcher's to get him some tripe,

And when she came back he was smoking a pipe.

She went to the fish-shop to buy him some fish,

And when she came back he was washing the dish.

She went to the tavern for white wine and red,

And when she came back the dog stood on his head.

As I was going to St. Ives

I met a man with seven wives;

Every wife had seven sacks,

Every sack had seven cats,

Every cat had seven kits.

Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,

How many were going to St. Ives?

Brown eyes, straight nose;

Dirt pies, rumpled clothes.

Torn books, spoilt toys:

Arch looks, unlike a boy's;

Little rages, obvious arts;

(Three her age is), cakes, tarts;

Falling down off chairs;

Breaking crown down stairs;

Catching flies on the pane;

Deep sighs—cause not plain;

Bribing you with kisses

For a few farthing blisses.

Wide-a-wake; as you hear,

"Mercy's sake, quiet, dear!"

New shoes, new frock;

Vague views of what's o'clock

When it's time to go to bed,

And scorn sublime for what is said

Folded hands, saying prayers,

Understands not nor cares—

Thinks it odd, smiles away;

Yet may God hear her pray!

Bed gown white, kiss Dolly;

Good night!—that's Polly,

Fast asleep, as you see,

Heaven keep my girl for me!

William Brighty Rands

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber;

Holy angels guard thy bed;

Heavenly blessings without number

Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment,

House and home, thy friends provide;

All without thy care, or payment,

All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou'rt attended

Than the Son of God could be,

When from heaven He descended,

And became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle;

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,

When His birthplace was a stable,

And His softest bed was hay.

See the kindly shepherds round him,

Telling wonders from the sky!

When they sought Him, there they found Him,

With his Virgin-Mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing;

Lovely infant, how He smiled!

When He wept, the mother's blessing

Soothed and hushed the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger,

Where the honest oxen fed;

—Peace, my darling! here's no danger!

Here's no ox a-near thy bed!

Mayst thou live to know and fear Him,

Trust and love Him all thy days;

Then go dwell forever near Him,

See His face, and sing His praise!

I could give thee thousand kisses,

Hoping what I most desire;

Not a mother's fondest wishes

Can to greater joys aspire.

Isaac Watts

I like little Pussy,

Her coat is so warm;

And if I don't hurt her

She'll do me no harm.

So I'll not pull her tail,

Nor drive her away,

But Pussy and I

Very gently will play;

She shall sit by my side,

And I'll give her some food;

And she'll love me because

I am gentle and good.

I'll pat little Pussy,

And then she will purr,

And thus show her thanks

For my kindness to her;

I'll not pinch her ears,

Nor tread on her paw,

Lest I should provoke her

To use her sharp claw;

I never will vex her,

Nor make her displeased,

For Pussy can't bear

To be worried or teased.

Jane Taylor

Baby mustn't frown,

When she tumbles down;

If the wind should change—Ah me,

What a face her face would be!

Rub away the dirt,

Say she wasn't hurt;

What a world 'twould be—O my,

If all who fell began to cry!

Laurence Alma Tadema

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree,

Up went pussy-cat, and down went he;

Down came pussy-cat, and away Robin ran;

Said little Robin Redbreast, "Catch me if you can."

Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon a wall,

Pussy-cat jumped after him, and almost got a fall;

Little Robin chirped and sang, and what did pussy say?

Pussy-cat said naught but "Mew," and Robin flew away.

Sleep, sleep, my treasure,

The long day's pleasure

Has tired the birds, to their nests they creep;

The garden still is

Alight with lilies,

But all the daisies are fast asleep.

Sleep, sleep, my darling,

Dawn wakes the starling,

The sparrow stirs when he sees day break;

But all the meadow

Is wrapped in shadow,

And you must sleep till the daisies wake!

E. Nesbit

Oh, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;

The woods and the glens from the tower which we see,

They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,

It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;

Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,

Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

Oh, hush thee, my babie, the time will soon come,

When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,

For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

Sir Walter Scott

I had a little bird,

I took it from the nest;

I prest it and blest it,

And nurst it in my breast.

I set it on the ground,

Danced round and round,

And sang about it so cheerly,

With "Hey, my little bird,

And ho! my little bird,

And oh! but I love thee dearly!"

I make a little feast

Of food soft and sweet,

I hold it in my breast,

And coax it to eat;

I pit, and I pat,

I call this and that,

And I sing about so cheerly,

With "Hey, my little bird,

And ho! my little bird,

And oh! but I love thee dearly!"

Sydney Dobell

Who killed Cock Robin?

"I," said the Sparrow,

"With my bow and arrow,

I killed Cock Robin."

Who saw him die?

"I," said the Fly,

"With my little eye,

I saw him die."

Who caught his blood?

"I," said the Fish,

"With my little dish,

I caught his blood."

Who'll make his shroud?

"I," said the Beetle,

"With my thread and needle,

I'll make his shroud."

Who'll bear the torch?

"I," said the Linnet,

"I'll come in a minute,

I'll bear the torch."

Who'll be the clerk?

"I," said the Lark,

"I'll say Amen in the dark;

I'll be the clerk."

Who'll dig his grave?

"I," said the Owl,

"With my spade and trowel,

I'll dig his grave."

Who'll be the parson?

"I," said the Rook,

"With my little book,

I'll be the parson."

Who'll be chief mourner?

"I," said the Dove,

"I mourn for my love;

I'll be chief mourner."

Who'll sing his dirge?

"I," said the Thrush,

"As I sing in a bush,

I'll sing his dirge."

Do you know how many stars

There are shining in the skies?

Do you know how many clouds

Ev'ry day go floating by?

God in heaven has counted all,

He would miss one should it fall.

Do you know how many children

Go to little beds at night,

And without a care or sorrow,

Wake up in the morning light?

God in heaven each name can tell,

Loves you, too, and loves you well.

Where do all the daisies go?

I know, I know!

Underneath the snow they creep,

Nod their little heads and sleep,

In the springtime out they peep;

That is where they go!

Where do all the birdies go?

I know, I know!

Far away from winter snow

To the fair, warm South they go;

There they stay till daisies blow,

That is where they go!

Where do all the babies go?

I know, I know!

In the glancing firelight warm,

Safely sheltered from all harm,

Soft they lie on mother's arm,

That is where they go!

Unknown

Cock crows in the morn,

To tell us to rise,

And he who lies late

Will never be wise.

For early to bed,

And early to rise,

Is the way to be healthy

And wealthy and wise.

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the rat

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the dog,

That worried the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn

That tossed the dog,

That worried the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn,

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

That tossed the dog,

That worried the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the man all tattered and torn,

That kissed the maiden all forlorn,

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

That tossed the dog,

That worried the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn,

That married the man all tattered and torn,

That kissed the maiden all forlorn,

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

That tossed the dog,

That worried the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the cock that crowed in the morn,

That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,

That married the man all tattered and torn,

That kissed the maiden all forlorn,

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

That tossed the dog,

That worried the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

This is the farmer sowing his corn,

That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,

That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,

That married the man all tattered and torn,

That kissed the maiden all forlorn,

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

That tossed the dog,

That worried the cat,

That killed the rat,

That ate the malt

That lay in the house that Jack built.

On yonder hill there stands a tree;

Tree on the hill, and the hill stood still.

And on the tree there was a branch;

Branch on the tree, tree on the hill, and the hill stood still.

And on the branch there was a nest;

Nest on the branch, branch on the tree, tree on the hill,

and the hill stood still.

And in the nest there was an egg;

Egg in the nest, nest on the branch, branch on the tree,

tree on the hill, and the hill stood still.

And in the egg there was a bird;

Bird in the egg, egg in the nest, nest on the branch,

branch on the tree, tree on the hill, and the hill stood still.

And on the bird there was a feather;

Feather on the bird, bird in the egg, egg in the nest,

nest on the branch, branch on the tree, tree on the hill,

and the hill stood still.

Do you know what's in my pottet?

Such a lot of treasures in it!

Listen now while I bedin it:

Such a lot of sings it holds,

And everysin dats in my pottet,

And when, and where, and how I dot it.

First of all, here's in my pottet

A beauty shell, I pit'd it up:

And here's the handle of a tup

That somebody has broked at tea;

The shell's a hole in it, you see:

Nobody knows dat I dot it,

I teep it safe here in my pottet.

And here's my ball too in my pottet,

And here's my pennies, one, two, free,

That Aunty Mary dave to me,

To-morrow day I'll buy a spade,

When I'm out walking with the maid;

I tant put that in here my pottet!

But I can use it when I've dot it.

Here's some more sings in my pottet,

Here's my lead, and here's my string;

And once I had an iron ring,

But through a hole it lost one day,

And this is what I always say—

A hole's the worst sing in a pottet,

Be sure and mend it when you've dot it.

Unknown