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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
Her child with a blessing,
TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.
SWEET and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Wind of the western sea !
Blow him again to me ;
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to thee soon ;
Under the silver moon :
• TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Ever busy Time prepares ;
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;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling;
TO MY INFANT SON.
Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,
“0, blest be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,
Thou happy, happy elf!
Thou tiny image of myself !
“And while they are keeping
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.
“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
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,
They had never seemed so sweet before, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for
To Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
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 ?
She seems like an ideal love,
soon come back, you 'll see me drop stone And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own,
A younger sister for the heart;
Her hair is brown and bright;
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."
“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
Giving us a sweet surprise
The flower of fairy lore ?
Where the cowslip bends,
Did the little maiden stay.
We, too, loiter mid life's flowers,
All love lingering on their way,
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.
A twelvemonth and a day,
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 did the children send
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.