THE FAIRIES

71

High on the hilltop

The old king sits;

He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.

By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.

Is any man so daring

As dig one up in spite?

He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

20

EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER

AMERICA, 1833

The Bluebird

I know the song that the bluebird is singing,

Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary,

Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!

Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying,

Up in the apple-tree swinging and swaying:

"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow,

10 You must be weary of winter, I know;

Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer,

Summer is coming and spring-time is here!

"Little white snow-drop, I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes;

Sweet little violets hid from the cold,

Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils, Daffodils! say, do you hear? Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!"

5

SIR WALTER SCOTT

SCOTLAND, 1771-1832

Hie Away

Hie away, hie away!

Over bank and over brae,

Where the copsewood is the greenest,

Where the fountains glisten sheenest,

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5

Where the lady fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
Where the blackcock sweetest sips it,
Where the fairy latest trips it:
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away!

10

15

THOMAS COLESWORTHY

ENGLAND, 1810-1872

Don't kill the Birds

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,
That sing about your door,

Soon as the joyous spring has come,

And chilling storms are o'er.
The little birds, how sweet they sing!
Oh! let them joyous live;

And never seek to take the life

That you can never give.

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,
That play among the trees;

'Twould make the earth a cheerless place,

Should we dispense with these.

The little birds, how fond they play!

Do not disturb their sport;

But let them warble forth their songs
Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds, the happy birds,
That bless the fields and grove;
So innocent to look upon,

They claim our warmest love.

The happy birds, the tuneful birds,
How pleasant 'tis to see!

No spot can be a cheerless place
Where'er their presence be.

WILLIAM BLAKE

ENGLAND, 1757-1827

The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee,

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