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 dig his grave?

I, said the Owl;
With my spade and shovel
I'll dig his grave.

Who'll carry him to the grave?
I, said the Kite;
If it's not in the night,

I'll carry him to the grave.

Who'll carry the link?

I, said the Linnet ; I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link.

Who'll be the Parson?

I, said the Rook;

With my little book,

I'll be the Parson.

C

Who'll be the Clerk?
I, said the Lark;
If it's not in the dark,
I'll be the Clerk.

Who'll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove;
For I mourn for my love,
I'll be chief mourner.

Who'll sing a Psalm ?
I, said the Thrush,
As she sat in a bush,
I'll sing a Psalm.

Who'll toll the bell?
I, said the Bull;
Because I can pull,
I'll toll the bell.

All the birds of the air,
Fell a sighing and sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll
For poor Cock Robin.

They had dug him a grave
Under oxlips and thyme,
Where o'er him in summer

The blue-bells would chime.

And they never forgot

The dear bird they loved best,
Who under the green sward
And moss lay at rest.

57

THE MUSTARD POT.

Papa one day was going away,
Upon his horse to trot,
And on the edge of the table ledge
He left a mustard pot.

But yet before the parlour door
He'd altogether shut,

He said, 'My dears, I have my fears,
You'll touch the mustard pot.'

'Oh no, Papa, there is no fear,
For playthings we have got.
We'll play alone, while you are gone,
Nor touch the mustard pot.'

But soon the boys their pretty toys
And promise quite forgot;
I grieve to say that quickly they
Ran to the mustard pot.

Very soon each took a spoon,
And said, 'A feast we've got!
Oh 'tis a treat, now we will eat
All in the mustard pot.'

Thus did they grin, till of their sin

The punishment they bore,

When 'stead of custard they found 'twas

mustard,

Which made their red tongues sore.

J. M. Heathcote.

60

BEAN POD.

The pod of a bean

Is smooth, soft, and green;
In the garden this morning I got one;
The bean it was laid

In a soft white bed,
Just like a piece of wool or of cotton.

The stalk of the bean,
That square is and green,
Standing all upright and tall;
You may see that it grows
In little short rows,
Close under the garden wall.

The flower you see

Like that of a pea,

And we find that the pod's long and flat,

The petals have got

A dark orange spot,

Like the back of a tortoise-shell cat.

J. M. Heathcote.