1790.

When Adam he first was created
Lord of the Universe round,
His happiness was not completed
Till for him a helpmate was found.

When Adam was laid in soft slumber,
’Twas then he lost part of his side,
And when he awakened, with wonder
He beheld his most beautiful bride.

She was not made out of his head, sir,
To rule and to govern the man;
Nor was she made out of his feet, sir,
By man to be trampled upon.

He had oxen and foxes for hunting,
And all that was pleasant in life;
Yet still his Almighty Creator
Thought that he wanted a wife.

But she did come forth from his side, sir,
His equal and partner to be;
And now they are coupled together,
She oft proves the top of the tree.

Adam lay i-bowndyn,
Bowndyn in a bond,
Fower thousand winter
Thowt he not to long;
And al was for an appil,
An appil that he tok,
As clerkes fyndyn wretyn
In here book.

Ne hadde the appil taken ben,
The appil taken ben,
Ne hadde never our lady
A ben hevene quen.
Blyssid be the tyme
That appil taken was!
Therefore we mown syngyn
Deo gracias.

FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROL

Adam was supposed to have lain in bonds in the limbus patrum from the time of his death to the Crucifixion.

CHESHIRE CHEESE

A Cheshire man sailed into Spain
To trade for merchandise;
When he arrived from the main
A Spaniard him espies,

Who said: “You English rogue, look here!
What fruits and spices fine
Our land produces twice a year!
Thou hast not such in thine!”

The Cheshire man ran to his hold,
And fetched a Cheshire cheese,
And said: “Look here, you dog, behold,
We have such fruits as these!

“Your fruits are ripe but twice a year,
As you yourself do say;
But such as I present you here,
Our land brings twice a day.”

The Spaniard in a passion flew,
And his rapier took in hand;
The Cheshire man kicked up his heels,
Saying: “Thou art at my command.”

So never let a Spaniard boast
While Cheshire men abound,
Lest they should teach him, to his cost,
To dance a Cheshire round.

THREE WELCH HUNTERS

There were three jovial Welchmen,
As I’ve heard them say,
And they would go a-hunting
Upon St David’s day.
All the day they hunted,
And nothing could they find,
But a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing with the wind.
One said it was a ship,
The other said, nay;
The third said it was a house,
And the chimney blown away.
And all the night they hunted,
And nothing could they find,
But the moon a-gliding,
A-gliding with the wind.
One said it was the moon
The other said, nay;
The third said it was a cheese,
And half o’t cut away.

LAMENT OF A MOTHER, WHOSE
CHILD WAS STOLEN BY FAIRIES

From the Gaelic.

I left my bairnie lying here,
Lying here, lying here;
I left my bairnie lying here,
To go and gather blaeberries.

I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,
Otter’s track, otter’s track;
I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,
But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

I found the swan’s track on the lake,
On the lake, on the lake;
I found the swan’s track on the lake,
But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

I found the track of the yellow fawn,
Yellow fawn, yellow fawn;
I found the track of the yellow fawn,
But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

I found the trail of the mountain mist,
Mountain mist, mountain mist;
I found the trail of the mountain mist,
But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

This is my birthday, do you know?
Once I was four, that’s long ago;
Once I was three, and two, and one,
Only a baby that could not run.
Now I am five, so old and so strong,
I could run races all the day long!
And I mean to grow bigger, and stronger, and older,
Some day perhaps I shall be a brave soldier.
I think I’m the happiest boy alive!
Oh, wouldn’t you like to be me—now I’m five?

GRACE FOR A LITTLE CHILD

Here a little child I stand,
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as paddocks though they be
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat, and on us all.

“I do not like to go to bed,”
Sleepy little Harry said;
“Go, naughty Betty, go away,
I will not come at all, I say!”

Oh, what a silly little fellow,
I should be quite ashamed to tell her;
Then Betty, you must come and carry
This very foolish little Harry.

The little birds are better taught,
They go to roosting when they ought;
And all the ducks and fowls, you know,
They went to bed an hour ago.

The little beggar in the street,
Who wanders with his naked feet,
And has no where to lay his head,
Oh, he’d be glad to go to bed.

My child, when we were children,
Two children little and gay,
We crept into the hen-roost,
And hid behind the hay.

We crowed as doth the cock crow,
When people passed that road,
Cried “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
They thought the cock had crowed.

The chests that lay in the court
We papered and made so clean,
And dwelt therein together—
We thought them fit for a queen.

Oft came our neighbour’s old cat,
With us an hour to spend;
We made her curtseys and bows,
And compliments without end.

There was one little Jim,
’Tis reported of him,
And must be to his lasting disgrace—
That he never was seen
With his hands at all clean,
Nor yet ever clean was his face.

His friends were much hurt
To see so much dirt,
And often they made him quite clean;
But all was in vain,
He was dirty again,
And not at all fit to be seen.

When to wash he was sent,
He reluctantly went
With water to splash himself o’er;
But he seldom was seen
To have washed himself clean,
And often looked worse than before.

The idle and bad,
Like this little lad,
May be dirty and black to be sure;
But good boys are seen
To be decent and clean,
Although they are ever so poor.

CLEANLINESS

Come my little Robert, near—
Fie! what filthy hands are here!
Who, that e’er could understand
The rare structure of a hand,
With its branching fingers fine,
Work itself of hands divine,
Strong yet delicately knit,
For ten thousand uses fit,
Overlaid with so clear skin
You may see the blood within,—
Who this hand would choose to cover
With a crust of dirt all over,
Till it looked in hue and shape
Like the forefoot of an ape!
Man or boy that works or plays
In the fields or the highways,
May, without offence or hurt,
From the soil contract a dirt
Which the next clear spring or river
Washes out and out for ever.
But to cherish stains impure,
Soil deliberate to endure,
On the skin to fix a stain
Till it works into the grain,
Argues a degenerate mind,
Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined,
Wanting in that self-respect
Which doth virtue best protect.
All-endearing cleanliness,
Virtue next to godliness,
Easiest, cheapest, needfull’st duty,
To the body health and beauty;
Who that’s human would refuse it,
When a little water does it?

Little Willie from his mirror
Sucked the mercury all off,
Thinking, in his childish error,
It would cure his whooping-cough.

At the funeral, Willie’s mother
Smartly said to Mrs Brown,
“’Twas a chilly day for William
When the mercury went down.”

Chorus

“Ah, ah, ah!” said Willie’s mother,
“Oh, oh, oh!” said Mrs Brown,
“’Twas a chilly day for William
When the mercury went down!”

FEIGNED COURAGE

Horatio, of ideal courage vain,
Was flourishing in air his father’s cane,
And, as the fumes of valour swelled his pate,
Now thought himself this hero, and now that;
“And now,” he cried, “I will Achilles be;
My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee!
Now, I’ll be Hector, when his angry blade
A lane through heaps of slaughter’d Grecians made!
And now my deeds still braver I’ll evince,
I am no less than Edward the Black Prince.

“Give way, ye coward French!” As this he spoke,
And aim’d in fancy a sufficient stroke
To fix the fate of Cressy or Poitiers
(The Muse relates the Hero’s fate with tears),
He struck his milk-white hand against a nail,
Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail.
Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown,
That in the tented field so late was shown?
Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head,
And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed.

ON READING

“And so you do not like to spell,
Mary, my dear; oh, very well:
’Tis dull and troublesome, you say,
And you would rather be at play.

“Then bring me all your books again,
Nay, Mary, why do you complain?
For as you do not choose to read,
You shall not have your books indeed.

“So as you wish to be a dunce,
Pray go and fetch me them at once;
For if you will not learn to spell,
’Tis vain to think of reading well.

“Now, don’t you think you’ll blush to own,
When you become a woman grown,
Without one good excuse to plead,
That you have never learned to read?"

“Oh, dear mamma,” said Mary then,
“Do let me have my books again;
I’ll not fret any more indeed,
If you will let me learn to read.”

Maria had an aunt at Leeds,
For whom she made a purse of beads;
’Twas neatly done, by all allow’d,
And praise soon made her vain and proud.

Her mother, willing to repress
This strong conceit of cleverness,
Said, “I will show you, if you please,
A honeycomb, the work of bees!

“Yes, look within their hive, and then
Examine well your purse again;
Compare your merits, and you will
Admit the insect’s greater skill.”

Knit, Dorothy, knit,
The sunbeams round thee flit,
So merry the minutes go by, go by,
While fast thy fingers fly, they fly.
Knit, Dorothy, knit.

Sing, Dorothy, sing,
The birds are on the wing,
’Tis better to sing than to sigh, to sigh,
While fast thy fingers fly, they fly.
Sing, Dorothy, sing.

HOW TO HEAL A BURN

“Oh, we have had a sad mishap!
As Clara lay in nurse’s lap,
Too near the fire the chair did stand—
A coal flew out and burnt her hand.

“It must have flown above the guard,
It came so quick, and hit so hard;
And, would you think it? raised a blister:
Oh, how she cried! poor little sister!

“Poor thing! I grieved to see it swell;”
“What will you do to make it well?”
“Why,” said Mamma, “I really think
Some scraped potato, or some ink.

“A little vinegar or brandy,
Whichever nurse can find most handy,
All these are good, my little daughter,
But nothing’s better than cold water.”

REBELLIOUS FRANCES

The babe was in the cradle laid,
And Tom had said his prayers,
When Frances told the nursery-maid
She would not go upstairs!

She cried so loud, her mother came
To ask the reason why,
And said, “Oh, Frances, fie for shame!
Oh fie! oh fie! oh fie!”

But Frances was more naughty still,
And Betty sadly nipp’d;
Until her mother said, “I will—
I must have Frances whipp’d.

“For, oh! how naughty ’tis to cry,
But worse, much worse, to fight,
Instead of running readily,
And calling out, ‘Good-night!’”

POISONOUS FRUIT

As Tommy and his sister Jane
Were walking down a shady lane,
They saw some berries, bright and red,
That hung around and overhead.

And soon the bough they bended down,
To make the scarlet fruit their own;
And part they ate, and part in play,
They threw about and flung away.

But long they had not been at home,
Before poor Jane and little Tom
Were taken sick, and ill to bed,
And since, I’ve heard they both are dead.

Alas! had Tommy understood
That fruit in lanes is seldom good,
He might have walked with little Jane
Again along the shady lane.