  From France or Spain or the Himalayas, Out of the hearts of unknown loons, In toothless mouths of old soothsayers, On hairy lips of wandering players Come the lullabies, come the croons. Lords have lashed and poets have pondered, Blood has flowed in the runnels deep, Beacons have broken and faiths been squandered; Through dank forests these songs have wandered Quietly crooning our babes to sleep. Grandmother melodies, grandmother fancies, Crooned by the Oxus ever endure! Epics of valour and throne romances Have much honour and take big chances, But the clowns who sang for the babes are sure. The goblin speaks while in old caves moulder Priest-made destinies and lord-made law, The goblin leered from the monarch's shoulder And, his sight being true and his young heart bolder, 'Twas only the goblin the baby saw! So the god's death agonies are baby chatter! A ball on the floor of the nursery room The red earth rolls, for what can matter If old John Spratt licks clean his platter And the brown cows go to the broom? WHISPER! Tip-toe, tip-toe! Hush the noise! There's a wide-eye-whisper tune! Micky's telling songs to boys, Sleepy after the afternoon. |
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