In My Nursery

A PARTY

On Willy's birthday, as you see,These little boys have come to tea.But, oh! how very sad to tell!They have not been behaving well.For ere they took a single bite,They all began to scold and fight.The little boy whose name was Ned,He wanted jelly on his bread;The little boy whose name was Sam,He vowed he would have damson jam;The little boy whose name was PhilSaid, "I'll have honey! Yes– I – WILL!!"BUT —The little boy whose name was Paul,While they were quarrelling, ate it all.

JUMBO JEE

There were some kings, in number three,Who built the tower of Jumbo Jee.They built it up to a monstrous height,At eleven o'clock on a Thursday night.They built it up for forty miles,With mutual bows and pleasing smiles;And then they sat on the edge to rest,And partook of lunch with a cheerful zest.And first they ate of the porkly pie,And wondered why they had built so high;And next they drank of the ginger wine,Which gave their noses a regal shine.They drank to the health of Jumbo Jee,Until they could neither hear nor see.They drank to the health of Jumbo Land,Until they could neither walk nor stand.They drank to the health of Jumbo TowerUntil they really could drink no more;And then they sank in a blissful swoon,And flung their crowns at the rising moon.

AN INDIAN BALLAD

Whopsy Whittlesey Whanko Whee,Howly old, growly old Indian he,Lived on the hills of the Mungo-Paws,With all his pappooses and all his squaws.There was Wah-wah-bocky, the Blue-nosed Goose,And Ching-gach-gocky, the Capering Moose:There was Pecksy Wiggin, and Squaw-pan too,But the fairest of all was Michiky Moo.Michiky Moo, the Savory Tart,Pride of Whittlesey Whanko's heart;Michiky Moo, the Cherokee Pie,Apple of Whittlesey Whanko's eye.Whittlesey Whanko loved her soThat the other squaws did with envy glow;And each said to the other, "Now, what shall we doTo spoil the beauty of Michiky Moo?""We'll lure her away to the mountain top,And there her head we will neatly chop.""We'll wile her away to the forest's heart,And shoot her down with a poisoned dart.""We'll lead her away to the river-side,And there she shall be the Manito's bride.""Oh! one of these things we will surely do,And we'll spoil the beauty of Michiky Moo.""Michiky Moo, thou Cherokee Pie,Away with me to the mountain high!""Nay, my sister, I will not roam.I'm safer and happier here at home.""Michiky Moo, thou Savory Tart,Away with me to the forest's heart!""Nay! my sister, I will not go;I fear the dart of some hidden foe.""Michiky Moo, old Whittlesey's pride,Away with me to the river-side!""Nay! my sister, for fear I fall!And wouldst thou come if thou heardst me call?""Now choose thee, choose thee thy way of death!For soon thou shalt draw thy latest breath!We all have sworn that this day we'll seeThe last, proud Michiky Moo, of thee!"Whittlesey Whanko, hidden near,Each and all of these words did hear.He summoned his braves, all painted for war,And gave them in charge each guilty squaw:"Take Wah-wah-bocky, the Blue-nosed Goose;Take Ching-gach-gocky, the Capering Moose;Take Peeksy Wiggin, and Squaw-pan too,And leave me alone with my Michiky Moo.This one away to the mountain top,And there her head ye shall neatly chop;This one away to the forest's heart,And shoot her down with a poisoned dart;This one away to the river-side,And there she shall be the Manito's bride;Away with them all, the woodlands through!For I'll have no squaw save Michiky Moo."Away went the braves, without question or pause,And they soon put an end to the guilty squaws.They pleasantly smiled when the deed was done,Saying, "Ping-ko-chanky! oh! isn't it fun!"And then they all danced the Buffalo dance,And capered about with ambiguous prance,While they drank to the health of the lovers so true,Bold Whittlesey Whanko and Michiky Moo.

THE EGG

Oh! how shall I get it, how shall I get it, —A nice little new-laid egg?My grandmamma told me to run to the barn-yard,And see if just one I could beg."Moolly-cow, Moolly-cow, down in the meadow,Have you any eggs, I pray?"The Moolly-cow stares as if I were crazy,And solemnly stalks away."Oh! Doggie, Doggie, perhaps you may have it,That nice little egg for me."But Doggie just wags his tail and capers,And never an egg has he."Now, Dobbin, Dobbin, I'm sure you must have one,Hid down in your manger there."But Dobbin lays back his ears and whinnies,With "Come and look, if you dare!""Piggywig, Piggywig, grunting and squealing,Are you crying 'Fresh eggs for sale'?"No! Piggy, you're very cold and unfeeling,With that impudent quirk in your tail."You wise old Gobbler, you look so knowing,I'm sure you can find me an egg.You stupid old thing! just to say 'Gobble-gobble!'And balance yourself on one leg."Oh! how shall I get it, how shall I get it, —That little white egg so small?I've asked every animal here in the barn-yard,And they won't give me any at all.But after I'd hunted until I was tired,I found – not one egg, but ten!And you never could guess where they all were hidden, —Right under our old speckled hen!

WOULDN'T

She wouldn't have on her naughty bib!She wouldn't get into her naughty crib!She wouldn't do this, and she wouldn't do that,And she would put her foot in her Sunday hat.She wouldn't look over her picture-book!She wouldn't run out to help the cook!She wouldn't be petted or coaxed or teased,And she would do exactly whatever she pleased.She wouldn't have naughty rice to eat!She wouldn't be gentle and good and sweet!She wouldn't give me one single kiss,And pray what could we do with a girl like this?We tickled her up, and we tickled her down,From her toddling toes to her curling crown.And we kissed her and tossed her, until she was fainTo promise she wouldn't say "wouldn't" again.

WILL-O'-THE-WISP

"Will-o'-the-wisp! Will-o'-the-wisp!Show me your lantern true!Over the meadow and over the hill,Gladly I'll follow you.Never I'll murmur nor ask to rest,And ever I'll be your friend,If you'll only give me the pot of goldThat lies at your journey's end."Will-o'-the-wisp, Will-o'-the-wisp,Lighted his lantern true;Over the meadow and over the hill,Away and away he flew.And away and away went the poor little boy,Trudging along so bold,And thinking of naught but the journey's end,And the wonderful pot of gold.Will-o'-the-wisp, Will-o'-the-wisp,Flew down to a lonely swamp;He put out his lantern and vanished awayIn the evening chill and damp.And the poor little boy went shivering home,Wet and tired and cold;He had come, alas! to his journey's end,But where was the pot of gold?

NONSENSE VERSES

INicholas Ned,He lost his head,And put a turnip on instead;But then, ah me!He could not see,So he thought it was night, and he went to bed.IIPonsonby Perks,He fought with Turks,Performing many wonderful works;He killed over forty,High-minded and haughty,And cut off their heads with smiles and smirks.IIIWinifred White,She married a fright,She called him her darling, her duck, and delight;The back of his headWas so lovely, she said,It dazzled her soul and enraptured her sight.IVHarriet Hutch,Her conduct was such,Her uncle remarked it would conquer the Dutch:She boiled her new bonnet,And breakfasted on it,And rode to the moon on her grandmother's crutch.

AN OLD RAT'S TALE

He was a rat, and she was a rat,And down in one hole they did dwell.And each was as black as your Sunday hat,And they loved one another well.He had a tail, and she had a tail;Both long and curling and fine.And each said, "My love's is the finest tailIn the world, excepting mine!"He smelt the cheese, and she smelt the cheese,And they both pronounced it good;And both remarked it would greatly addTo the charms of their daily food.So he ventured out and she ventured out;And I saw them go with pain.But what them befell I never can tell,For they never came back again.

TO THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WRIGGLES

Don't wriggle about any more, my dear!I'm sure all your joints must be sore, my dear!It's wriggle and jiggle, it's twist and it's wiggle,Like an eel on a shingly shore, my dear,Like an eel on a shingly shore.Oh! how do you think you would feel, my dear,If you should turn into an eel, my dear?With never an arm to protect you from harm,And no sign of a toe or a heel, my dear,No sign of a toe or a heel?And what do you think you would do, my dear,Far down in the water so blue, my dear,Where the prawns and the shrimps, with their curls and their crimps,Would turn up their noses at you, my dear,Would turn up their noses at you?The crab he would give you a nip, my dear,And the lobster would lend you a clip, my dear.And perhaps if a shark should come by in the dark,Down his throat you might happen to slip, my dear,Down his throat you might happen to slip.Then try to sit still on your chair, my dear!To your parents 'tis no more than fair, my dear.For we really don't feel like inviting an eelOur board and our lodging to share, my dear,Our board and our lodging to share.

The Forty Little Ducklings

[A story with a certain amount of truth in it.]The forty little ducklings who lived up at the farm,They said unto each other, "Oh! the day is very warm!"They said unto each other, "Oh! the river's very cool!The duck who did not seek it now would surely be a fool."The forty little ducklings, they started down the road;And waddle, waddle, waddle, was the gait at which they goed.The same it is not grammar, – you may change it if you choose, —But one cannot stop for trifles when inspired by the Muse.They waddled and they waddled and they waddled on and on.Till one remarked, "Oh! deary me, where is the river gone?We asked the Ancient Gander, and he said 'twas very near.He must have been deceiving us, or else himself, I fear."They waddled and they waddled, till no further they could go:Then down upon a mossy bank they sat them in a row.They took their little handkerchiefs and wept a little weep,And then they put away their heads, and then they went to sleep.There came along a farmer, with a basket on his arm,And all those little duckylings he took back to the farm.He put them in their little beds, and wished them sweet repose,And fastened mustard plasters on their little webby toes.Next day these little ducklings, they were very very ill.Their mother sent for Doctor Quack, who gave them each a pill;But soon as they recovered, the first thing that they did,Was to peck the Ancient Gander, till he ran away and hid.

THE MOUSE

I'm only a poor little mouse, Ma'am.I live in the wall of your house, Ma'am.With a fragment of cheese,And a very few peas,I was having a little carouse, Ma'am.No mischief at all I intend, Ma'am.I hope you will act as my friend, Ma'am.If my life you should take,Many hearts it would break,And the mischief would be without end, Ma'am.My wife lives in there, in the crack, Ma'am,She's waiting for me to come back, Ma'am.She hoped I might findA bit of a rind,For the children their dinner do lack, Ma'am.'Tis hard living there in the wall, Ma'am,For plaster and mortar will pall, Ma'am,On the minds of the young,And when specially hung —Ry, upon their poor father they'll fall, Ma'am.I never was given to strife, Ma'am, —(Don't look at that terrible knife, Ma'am!)The noise overheadThat disturbs you in bed,'Tis the rats, I will venture my life, Ma'am.In your eyes I see mercy, I'm sure, Ma'am.Oh, there's no need to open the door, Ma'am.I'll slip through the crack,And I'll never come back,Oh! I'll never come back any more, Ma'am!

A VALENTINE

Oh, little loveliest lady mine!What shall I send for your valentine?Summer and flowers are far away,Gloomy old Winter is king to-day,Buds will not blow, and sun will not shine;What shall I do for a valentine?Prithee, Saint Valentine, tell me here,Why do you come at this time o' year?Plenty of days when lilies are white,Plenty of days when sunbeams are bright;But now, when everything's dark and drear,Why do you come, Saint Valentine dear?I've searched the gardens all through and through,For a bud to tell of my love so true;But buds are asleep, and blossoms are dead,And the snow beats down on my poor little head;So, little loveliest lady mine,Here is my heart for your valentine.

JAMIE IN THE GARDEN

How is a little boy to knowAbout these berries all,That ripen all the summer through,From spring-time until fall?I must not eat them till they're ripe,I know that very well;But each kind ripens differently,So how am I to tell?Though strawberries and raspberries,When ripe, are glowing red,Red blackberries I must not touch,Mamma has lately said.And though no one of these is fitTo touch when it is green,Ripe gooseberries, as green as grass,At Grandpapa's I've seen.And peas are green when they are ripe;Some kinds of apples too.But they're not berries; neither areThese currants, it is true.These currants, now! why, some are red,And some are brilliant green."Don't eat unripe ones!" said Mamma.But which ones did she mean?To disobey her would be wrong.To leave them I am loath.I really can't find out, unless —Unless I eat them both![He eats them both.]

SOMEBODY'S BOY (NOT MINE)

When he was up he cried to get down,And when he was in he cried to get out;And no little boy in Boston townWas ever so ready to fret and pout.Poutsy, oh!And fretsy, oh!And spend the whole day in a petsy, oh!And what shall we do to this bad little man,But scold him as hard as we possibly can!When he was cold he cried to be warm,And when he was warm he cried to be cold;And all the morning 'twas scold and storm,And all the evening 'twas storm and scold.Stormy, oh!And scoldy, oh!And never do what he was toldy, oh!And what shall we do to this bad little man,But scold him as hard as we possibly can!

BOGY

His eyes are green and his nose is brown,His feet go up and his head goes down,And so he goes galloping through the town,The king of the Hobbledygoblins.His heels stick out and his toes stick in,He wears his mustaches upon his chin,And he glares about with a horrible grin,The king of the Hobbledygoblins.No naughty boys can escape his eyes;He clutches them, 'spite of their tears and sighs,And away at a terrible pace he hiesTo his castle of Killemaneetem;There he shuts them up under lock and key,And feeds them on blacking and grasshopper tea,And if ever they try to get out, you see,Why, this is the way he'll treat 'em.[Here Mamma may toss the little boy up in the air, or shake him, or tickle his little chin, whichever he likes best.]Now, Johnny and Tommy, you'd better look out!All day you've done nothing but quarrel and pout,And nobody knows what it's all about,But it gives me a great deal of pain, dears.So, Johnny and Tommy, be good, I pray,Or the king will be after you some fine day,And off to his castle he'll whisk you away,And we never shall see you again, dears!

THE MERMAIDENS

The little white mermaidens live in the sea,In a palace of silver and gold;And their neat little tails are all covered with scales,Most beautiful for to behold.On wild white horses they ride, they ride,And in chairs of pink coral they sit;They swim all the night, with a smile of delight,And never feel tired a bit.

The Phrisky Phrog

Now list, oh! list to the piteous taleOf the Phrisky Phrog and the Sylvan Snayle;Of their lives and their loves, their joys and their woes,And all about them that any one knows.The Phrog lived down in a grewsome bog,The Snayle in a hole in the end of a log;And they loved each other so fond and true,They didn't know what in the world to do.For the Snayle declared 'twas too cold and dampFor a lady to live in a grewsome swamp;While her lover replied, that a hole in a logWas no possible place for a Phrisky Phrog."Come down! come down, my beautiful Snayle!With your helegant horns and your tremulous tail;Come down to my bower in the blossomy bog,And be happy with me," said the Phrisky Phrog."Come up, come up, to my home so sweet,Where there's plenty to drink, and the same to eat;Come up where the cabbages bloom in the vale,And be happy with me," said the Sylvan Snayle.But he wouldn't come, and she wouldn't go,And so they could never be married, you know;Though they loved each other so fond and true,They didn't know what in the world to do.

THE AMBITIOUS CHICKEN

It was an Easter chickenSo blithesome and so gay;He peeped from out his plaster shellAll on an Easter Day.His wings were made of yellow down,His eyes were made of beads;He seemed, in very sooth, to haveAll that a chicken needs.He winked and blinked and peeped about,And to himself he said,"When first a chicken leaves the shell,Of course he must be fed."And though I may be young in years,And this my natal morn,I'm quite, quite old enough to knowWhere people keep the corn."He winked and blinked and peeped about,Till in a corner slyHe saw a heap of golden cornPiled on a platter high."Now, this is well!" the chicken cried;"Now, this is well, in sooth.This corn shall nourish and sustainMy faint and tender youth."And I shall grow and grow apace,And come to high estate,With mighty feathers in my tail,And combs upon my pate."To see my beauty and my graceThe feathered race will flock,And all will bow them low beforeThe mighty Easter Cock."As thus the chicken proudly spake,And stooped to snatch the prize,His head fell off, and rolled awayBefore his very eyes!!!!It rolled into the dish of corn,A sad and sombre sight,While still upon its plaster legs,His body stood upright.And little Mary, when she cameWith shining "popper" bright,To pop the corn, and make the ballsWhich were her heart's delight,Gazed at the dish with wide blue eyes,And "Oh! Mamma!" she said:"One piece has gone and popped itselfInto a chicken's head!"

THE BOY AND THE BROOK

Said the boy to the brook that was rippling away,"Oh, little brook, pretty brook, will you not stay?Oh, stay with me, play with me, all the day long,And sing in my ears your sweet murmuring song."Said the brook to the boy as it hurried away,"And is't for my music you ask me to stay?I was silent until from the hillside I gushed;Should I pause for an instant, my song would be hushed."Said the boy to the wind that was fluttering past,"Oh, little wind, pretty wind, whither so fast?Oh, stay with me, play with me, fan my hot brow,And ever breathe softly and gently as now."Said the wind to the boy as it hurried away,"And is't for my coolness you ask me to stay?'Tis only in flying you feel my cool breath;Should I pause for an instant, that instant were death."Said the boy to the day that was hurrying by,"Oh, little day, pretty day, why must you fly?Oh, stay with me, play with me, just as you are;Let no shadow of evening your noon-brightness mar."Said the day to the boy as it hurried away,"And is't for my brightness you ask me to stay?Know, the jewel of day would no longer seem bright,If it were not clasped round by the setting of night."

THE SHARK

Oh! blithe and merrily sang the shark,As he sat on the house-top high:A-cleaning his boots, and smoking cheroots,With a single glass in his eye.With Martin and Day he polished away,And a smile on his face did glow,As merry and bold the chorus he trolledOf "Gobble-em-upsky ho!"He sang so loud, he astonished the crowdWhich gathered from far and near.For they said, "Such a sound, in the country round,We never, no, never did hear."He sang of the ships that he'd eaten like chipsIn the palmy days of his youth.And he added, "If you don't believe it is true,Pray examine my wisdom tooth!"He sang of the whales who'd have given their tailsFor a glance of his raven eye.And the swordfish, too, who their weapons all drew,And swor'd for his sake they'd die.And he sang about wrecks and hurricane decksAnd the mariner's perils and pains,Till every man's blood up on end it stood,And their hair ran cold in their veins.But blithe as a lark the merry old shark,He sat on the sloping roof.Though he said, "It is queer that no one draws nearTo examine my wisdom toof!"And he carolled away, by night and by day,Until he made every one ill.And I'll wager a crown that unless he's come down,He is probably carolling still.

THE EASTER HEN

Oh! children, have you ever seenThe little Easter Hen,Who comes to lay her pretty eggs,Then runs away again?She only comes on Easter Day;And when that day is o'er,Till next year brings it round again,You will not see her more.Her eggs are not like common eggs,But all of colors bright:Blue, purple, red, with spots and stripes,And scarcely one that's white.She lays them in no special place, —On this side, now on that.And last year, only think! she laidOne right in Johnny's hat.But naughty boys and girls get none:So, children, don't forget!And be as good as good can be —It is not Easter yet!

PUMP AND PLANET

With a hop, skip, and jump,We went to the pump,To fill our kettles with starch.He gave us good dayIn the pleasantest way,With a smile that was winning and arch."Oh, Pump," said I,"When you look up on highTo flirt with the morning star,Does it make you sad,Oh! Pumpy, my lad,To think she's away so far?"Said the Pump, "Oh no!For we've settled it soThat but little my feelings are tried.For every clear nightShe slides down the moonlight,And shines in the trough at my side."

THE POSTMAN

Hey! the little postman,And his little dog.Here he comes a-hoppingLike a little frog;Bringing me a letter,Bringing me a note,In the little pocketOf his little coat.Hey! the little postman,And his little bag,Here he comes a-trottingLike a little nag;Bringing me a paper,Bringing me a bill,From the little grocerOn the little hill.Hey! the little postman,And his little hat,Here he comes a-creepingLike a little cat.What is that he's saying?"Naught for you to-day!"Horrid little postman!I wish you'd go away!

HOPSY UPSY

Hopsy upsy, Baby oh!Into your bath you now must go;Splash and dash, and paddle and plash,That's what you like, my Baby oh!Where is the sponge for Baby oh?See the silvery fountains flow, —Diamond drops so bright and clear,Falling all over my Baby dear.Now for the soap, my Baby oh!Watch the bubbles that come and go;Rainbow isles in a sea of foam,Reflecting your smiles, they go and come.Here is the towel for Baby oh!Cannot stay in all day, you know;Now scrub and rub, and rub and scrub,And so good-by to the beautiful tub.Now for the shirt, my Baby oh!Soft and warm, and as white as snow.Puffy white petticoats, fluffy white gown;Why, what a great ball of thistle-down!Last come the curls, my Baby oh!Soft as silver they fall and flow.Now toss him up and carry him down,The bonniest Baby in Boston town!

LITTLE BLACK MONKEY

Little black Monkey sat up in a tree,Little black Monkey he grinned at me;He put out his paw for a cocoanut,And he dropped it down on my occiput.The occiput is a part, you know,Of the head which does on my shoulders grow;And it's very unpleasant to have it hit,Especially when there's no hair on it.I took up my gun, and I said, "Now, why,Little black Monkey, should you not die?I'll hit you soon in a vital part!It may be your head, or it may be your heart."I steadied my gun, and I aimed it true;The trigger it snapped and the bullet it flew;But just where it went to I cannot tell,For I never could find where that bullet fell.Little black Monkey still sat in the tree,And placidly, wickedly grinned at me.I took up my gun and I walked away,And postponed his death till another day.

JIPPY AND JIMMY

Jippy and Jimmy were two little dogs.They went to sail on some floating logs;The logs rolled over, the dogs rolled in,And they got very wet, for their clothes were thin.Jippy and Jimmy crept out again.They said, "The river is full of rain!"They said, "The water is far from dry!Ki-hi! ki-hi! ki-hi-yi! ki-hi!"Jippy and Jimmy went shivering home.They said, "On the river no more we'll roam;And we won't go to sail until we learn how,Bow-wow! bow-wow! bow-wow-wow! bow-wow!"

MASTER JACK'S SONG

[Written after spending the Christmas Holidays at Grandmamma's.]You may talk about your groves,Where you wander with your loves.You may talk about your moonlit waves that fall and flow.Something fairer far than theseI can show you, if you please.'Tis the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.Chorus. Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.The fairest spot to me,On the land or on the sea,Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.There the golden peaches shineIn their syrup clear and fine,And the raspberries are blushing with a dusky glow.And the cherry and the plumSeem to beckon you to comeTo the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.Chorus. Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.The fairest spot to me,On the land or on the sea,Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.There the sprightly pickles stand,With the catsup close at hand,And the marmalades and jellies in a goodly row.While the quinces' ruddy fireWould an anchorite inspireTo seek the little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.Chorus. Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.The fairest spot to me,On the land or on the sea,Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.Never tell me of your bowersThat are full of bugs and flowers!Never tell me of your meadows where the breezes blow!But sing me, if you will,Of the house beneath the hill,And the darling little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.Chorus. Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jam-pots grow!Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.The fairest spot to me,On the land or on the sea,Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.