The Babie

But these are few. Far more there are who wander
Without a hope or friend,-

Who find their journey full of pains and losses,
And long to reach the end.

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger,
Fair-faced and gentle-eyed,

Before whose unstained feet the world's rude highway
Stretches so fair and wide?

Ah! who may read the future? For our darling
We crave all blessings sweet,

that He who feeds the crying ravens
Will guide the baby's feet.

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Unknown

THE BABIE

NAE shoon to hide her tiny taes,
Nae stockin' on her feet;
Her supple ankles white as snaw,
Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink,
Her double, dimplit chin,

Her puckered lips, an' baumy mou',
With na ane tooth within.

Her een sae like her mither's een,
Twa gentle, liquid things;
Her face is like an angel's face,—
We're glad she has nae wings.

She is the buddin' of our luve,
A giftie God gied us:

We maun na luve the gift owre weel,
'Twad be nae blessin' thus.

We still maun luve the Giver mair,

An' see Him in the given;

An' sae she'll lead us up to Him,
Our babie straight frae Heaven.

Jeremiah Eames Rankin [1828-1904]

LITTLE HANDS

SOFT little hands that stray and clutch,
Like fern fronds curl and uncurl bold,
While baby faces lie in such

Close sleep as flowers at night that fold,
What is it you would clasp and hold,
Wandering outstretched with wilful touch?
O fingers small of shell-tipped rose,
How should you know you hold so much?
Two full hearts beating you inclose,

Hopes, fears, prayers, longings, joys and woes,—
All yours to hold, O little hands!

More, more than wisdom understands

And love, love only knows.

Laurence Binyon (1869–

BARTHOLOMEW

BARTHOLOMEW is very sweet,
From sandy hair to rosy feet.

Bartholomew is six months old,

And dearer far than pearls or gold.

Bartholomew has deep blue eyes,
Round pieces dropped from out the skies.

Bartholomew is hugged and kissed:

He loves a flower in either fist.

Bartholomew's my saucy son:

No mother has a sweeter one!

Norman Gale [1862

THE STORM-CHILD

My child came to me with the equinox,
The wild wind blew him to my swinging door,
With flakes of tawny foam from off the shore,
And shivering spindrift whirled across the rocks.
Flung down the sky, the wheeling swallow-flocks

Cried him a greeting, and the lordly woods,
Waving lean arms of welcome one by one,
Cast down their russet cloaks and golden hoods,
And bid their dancing leaflets trip and run
Before the tender feet of this my son.

Therefore the sea's swift fire is in his veins,

And in his heart the glory of the sea;

Therefore the storm-wind shall his comrade be,

That strips the hills and sweeps the cowering plains.

October, shot with flashing rays and rains,
Inhabits all his pulses; he shall know

The stress and splendor of the roaring gales,
The creaking boughs shall croon him fairy tales,
And the sea's kisses set his blood aglow,
While in his ears the eternal bugles blow.

Unknown

"ON PARENT KNEES"

ON parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled:
So live, that, sinking to thy life's last sleep,
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep.

William Jones (1746-1794]

"PHILIP, MY KING"

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round and top of sovereignty."

Look at me with thy large brown eyes,
Philip, my king!

Round whom the enshadowing purple lies

Of babyhood's royal dignities.

Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

With love's invisible scepter laden;

I am thine Esther to command

Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden,
Philip, my king.

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O the day when thou goest a-wooing,
Philip, my king!

When those beautiful lips are suing,
And some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest love-glorified. Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my king.

Up from thy sweet mouth,-up to thy brow,
Philip, my king!

The spirit that there lies sleeping now
May rise like a giant and make men bow
As to one heaven-chosen among his peers.
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer,
Let me behold thee in future years!—

Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my king.

-A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip, my king!

Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way
Thorny and cruel and cold and gray:
Rebels within thee, and foes without,
Will snatch at thy crown.
Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,

But march on, glorious,

As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik [1826-1887]

THE KING OF THE CRADLE

DRAW back the cradle curtains, Kate,
While watch and ward you're keeping,

Let's see the monarch in his state,

And view him while he's sleeping.

He smiles and clasps his tiny hand,
With sunbeams o'er him gleaming,—
A world of baby fairyland

He visits while he's dreaming.

The King of the Cradle

Monarch of pearly powder-puff,

Asleep in nest so cosy,

Shielded from breath of breezes rough

By curtains warm and rosy:
He slumbers soundly in his cell,
As weak as one decrepid,

Though King of Coral, Lord of Bell,
And Knight of Bath that's tepid.

Ah, lucky tyrant! Happy lot!
Fair watchers without number,

Who sweetly sing beside his cot,
And hush him off to slumber;
White hands in wait to smooth so neat
His pillow when its rumpled-
A couch of rose leaves soft and sweet,
Not one of which is crumpled!

Will yonder dainty dimpled hand-
Size, nothing and a quarter-
E'er grasp a saber, lead a band
To glory and to slaughter?
Or, may I ask, will those blue eyes—
In baby patois, "peepers"-
E'er in the House of Commons rise,
And try to catch the Speaker's?

Will that smooth brow o'er Hansard frown,
Confused by lore statistic?

Or will those lips e'er stir the town

From pulpit ritualistic?

Will e'er that tiny Sybarite

Become an author noted?

That little brain the world's delight,
Its works by all men quoted?

Though rosy, dimpled, plump, and round

Though fragile, soft, and tender, Sometimes, alas! it may be found

The thread of life is slender!

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