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I'm in love with you, Baby Louise !

0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! Why! you never raise your beautiful head !

And say thou wouldst rather Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red

They'd watch o'er thy father ! With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, For I know that the angels are whispering to "I love you,” Baby Louise.

thee." Do you hear me, Baby Louise ?

The dawn of the morning I have sung your praises for nearly an hour,

Saw Dermot returning, And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And — you've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,

And closely caressing
Ungrateful Baby Louise !

Her child with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering

with thee."

M. E

SAMUEL LOVER.

LULLABY.

"

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.

FROM

THE PRINCESS.'

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 TENNYSON.

TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,

Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please ;
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandoned to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blash;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat;
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May
Flitting to each bloomy spray ;
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest ;-
This thy present happy lot,
This in time will be forgot :
Other pleasures, other cares,

Ever busy Time prepares ;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a chid smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with angels."

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping;
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, O come back

to me!”

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

TO MY INFANT SON.

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee:

“0, blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with

thee.

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)

Thou tiny image of myself !
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear,)
Thou merry, laughing sprite,
With spirits, feather light,

“And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

rope !)

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin ;

THE LOST HEIR, (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !)

"O where, and O where

Is my bonnie laddie gone?" - OLD SONG. Thou little tricksy Puck !

ONE day, as I was going by With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

That part of Holborn christened High, Light as the singing bird that rings the air, –

I heard a loud and sudden cry (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the

That chilled my very blood ; stair!)

And lo ! from out a dirty alley, Thou darling of thy sire !

Where pigs and Irish wont to rally, (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !)

I saw a crazy woman sally, Thou imp of mirth and joy !

Bedaubed with grease and mud. In love's dear chain so bright a link,

She turned her East, she turned her West, Thou idol of thy parents ; — (Drat the boy !

Staring like Pythoness possest, There goes my ink.)

With streaming hair and heaving breast,

As one stark mad with grief.
Thou cherub, but of earth ;
Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale,

“O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall In harmless sport and mirth,

go stick stark staring wild ! (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail !) Has ever a one seen anything about the streets

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey like a crying lost-looking child ? From every blossom in the world that blows, Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,

run, if I only knew which way – (Another tumble! That's his precious nose !)

A Child as is lost about London streets, and es. Thy father's pride and hope !

pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a (He'll break that mirror with that skipping

bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver --- get out of my sight, do, With pure heart newly stamped from nature's you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! mint,

You promised to have half an eye to him, you (Where did he learn that squint?)

know you did, you dirty deceitful young

drab. Thou young domestic dove !

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was (He'll have that ring off with another shove,)

with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest !

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing (Are these torn clothes his best ?)

at making little dirt-pies. Little epitome of man !

I wonder he left the court, where he was better

off than all the other young boys, (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells,

and a dead kitten by way of toys. life, (He's got a knife !)

When his Father comes home, and he always Thou enviable being !

comes home as sure as ever the clock

strikes one, No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being My elfin John !

lost; and the beef and the inguns not

done! Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !)

La bless you, good folks, mind your own conWith fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,

carns, and don't be making a mob in the

street ; Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk!

O Sergeant M'Farlane ! you have not come across (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !)

my poor little boy, have you, in your

beat? Thou pretty opening rose ! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your

Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring nose !)

at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs ; Balmy and breathing music like the south,

Saints forbid ! but he's p'r’aps been inviggled (He really brings my heart into my mouth !)

away up a court for the sake of his clothes

by the priggs; Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove ; (I 'll tell you what, my love,

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought I cannot write unless he's sent above.)

it myself for a shilling one day in Rag

THOMAS HOOD.

Fair ;

rest;

was

And his trousers considering not very much | Why, there he is ! Punch and Judy hunting, the

patched, and red plush, they was once his young wretch, it's that Billy as sartin Father's best pair.

as sin ! His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the But let me get him home, with a good grip of tub, or that might have gone with the his hair, and I'm blest if he shall have a

whole bone in his skin !

THOMAS HOOD. But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only

two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown

sewed in, and not quite so inuch jagged at LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

the briin. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot,

COME back, come back together, and not a fit, and you 'll know by that

All ye fancies of the past, if it's him.

Ye days of April weather, And then he has got such dear winning ways

Ye shadows that are cast but O, I never, never shall see him no

By the haunted hours before ! more !

Come back, come back, my Childhood ; O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing

Thou art summoned by a spell him back from death's door !

From the green leaves of the wildwood, Only the very last month when the windfalls,

From beside the charméd well, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny!

For Red Riding Hood, the darling, And the threepence he'd got by grottoing was

The flower of fairy lore ! spent in plums, and sixty for a child is

The fields were covered over too many.

With colors as she went; And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us

Daisy, buttercup, and clover all, and, drat him ! made a seize of our

Below her footsteps bent ; hog.

Summer shed its shining store ; It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog ;

She was happy as she pressed them

Beneath her little feet; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child

She plucked them and caressed them ; he was guzzling with his bell at the

They were so very sweet,
Crown,

They had never seemed so sweet before, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for

To Red Riding Hood, the darling,
a distracted Mother and Father about

The flower of fairy lore.
Town.
Billy — where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, How the heart of childhood dances
come home, to your best of Mothers !

Upon a sunny day! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they It has its own romances, drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters

And a wide, wide world have they ! and Brothers,

A world where Phantasie is king, Or maybe he's stole by some chimbly-sweeping Made all of eager dreaming ; wretch, to stick fast in narrow flues and

When once grown up and tall what not,

Now is the time for scheming — And be poked up behind with a picked pointed Then we shall do them all! pole, when the soot has ketched, and the

Do such pleasant fancies spring chimbly's red hot.

For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 0, I'd give the whole wide world, if the world

The flower of fairy lore ?
was mine, to clap my two longin' eyes on
his face.

She seems like an ideal love,
For he's my darlin' of darlin's, and if he don't The poetry of childhood shown,

soon come back, you 'll see me drop stone And yet loved with a real love,
dead on the place.

As if she were our own,
I only wish I'd got him safe in these two Moth-

A younger sister for the heart;
erly arms, and would n't I hug him and Like the woodland pheasant,
kiss him !

Her hair is brown and bright;
Lawk! I never knew what a precious he was — And her smile is pleasant,
but a child don't not feel like a child till With its rosy light.

Never can the memory part

you miss him.

With Red Riding Hood, the darling,

The flower of fairy lore. Did the painter, dreaming

In a morning hour, Catch the fairy seeming

Of this fairy flower ?

And to his little daughter Jane

Five hundred pounds in gold, To be paid down on marriage-day,

Which might not be controlled ; But if the children chanced to die

Ere they to age should come, Their uncle should possess their wealth,

For so the will did run.

“Now, brother," said the dying man,

“Look to my children dear ; Be good unto my boy and girl,

No friends else I have here."
With that bespake their mother dear,

O brother kind,” quoth she, “You are the man must bring our babes

To wealth or misery.

From the old enchanted stories,

Lingering with a long delight
On the unforgotten glories
Of the infant sight?

Giving us a sweet surprise
In Red Riding Hood, the darling,

The flower of fairy lore ?
Too long in the meadow staying,

Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying
As with early friends,

Did the little maiden stay.
Sorrowful the tale for us ;

We, too, loiter mid life's flowers,
A little while so glorious,
So soon lost in darker hours.

All love lingering on their way,
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.

LÆTITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

“And if you keep them carefully,

Then God will you reward ; If otherwise you seem to deal,

God will your deeds regard." With lips as cold as any stone

She kissed her children small : “God bless you both, my children dear,”

With that the tears did fall.

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

Their parents being dead and gone,

The children home he takes, And brings them home unto his house,

And much of them he makes.
He had not kept these pretty babes

A twelvemonth and a day,
But, for their wealth, he did devise

To make them both away.

Now ponder well, you parents dear,

The words which I shall write ; A doleful story you shall hear,

In time brought forth to light : A gentleman, of good account,

In Norfolk lived of late, Whose wealth and riches did surmount

Most men of his estate.

He bargained with two ruffians strong,

Which were of furious mood, That they should take these children young,

And slay them in a wood.
He told his wife, and all he had

He did the children send
To be brought up in fair London,
With one that was his friend.

Sore sick he was, and like to die,

No help then he could have ; His wife by him as sick did lie,

And both possessed one grave. No love between these two was lost,

Each was to other kind ; In love they lived, in love they died,

And left two babes behind :

Away then went these pretty babes,

Rejoicing at that tide, Rejoicing with a merry mind,

They should on cock-horse ride ; They prate and prattle pleasantly,

As they rode on the way, To those that should their butchers be,

And work their lives' decay,

The one a fine and pretty boy,

Vot passing three years old ; The other a girl, more young than he,

And made in beauty's mould. The father left his little son,

As plainly doth appear, When he to perfect age should come,

Three hundred pounds a year, —

So that the pretty speech they had

Made Murder's heart relent ; And they that undertook the deed

Full sore they did repent.

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