Rhymes for the Young Folk. Allingham William

Rhymes for the Young Folk - Allingham William


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seven years long;

      When she came down again

      Her friends were all gone.

      They took her lightly back,

      Between the night and morrow,

      They thought that she was fast asleep,

      But she was dead with sorrow.

      They have kept her ever since

      Deep within the lake,

      On a bed of flag-leaves,

      Watching till she wake.

      By the craggy hill-side,

      Through the mosses bare,

      They have planted thorn-trees

      For pleasure here and there.

      Is any man so daring

      As dig them up in spite,

      He shall find their sharpest thorns

      In his bed at night.

      Up the airy mountain,

      Down the rushy glen,

      We daren't go a-hunting

      For fear of little men;

      Wee folk, good folk,

      Trooping all together;

      Green jacket, red cap,

      And white owl's feather!

THE ELF SINGING. An Elf sat on a twig, He was not very big, He sang a little song, He did not think it wrong; But he was on a Wizard's ground, Who hated all sweet sound. Elf, Elf, Take care of yourself! He's coming behind you, To seize you and bind you, And stifle your song. The Wizard! the Wizard! He changes his shape In crawling along, An ugly old ape, A poisonous lizard, A spotted spider, A wormy glider, The Wizard! the Wizard! He's up on the bough, He'll bite through your gizzard He's close to you now!

The Elf went on with his song, It grew more clear and strong, It lifted him into air, He floated singing away, With rainbows in his hair; While the Wizard-worm from his creep Made a sudden leap, Fell down into a hole, And, ere his magic word he could say, Was eaten up by a Mole.

       Table of Contents

      "High on the hill-top

      The old King sits;

      He is now so old and gray

      He's nigh lost his wits."

      The Fairy King was old.

      He met the Witch of the Wold.

      "Ah ha, King!" quoth she,

      "Now thou art old like me."

      "Nay, Witch!" quoth he,

      "I am not old like thee."

      The King took off his crown,

      It almost bent him down;

      His age was too great

      To carry such a weight.

      "Give it here!" she said,

      And clapt it on her head.

      Crown sank to ground;

      The Witch no more was found.

      Then sweet spring-songs were sung,

      The Fairy King grew young,

      His crown was made of flowers,

      He lived in woods and bowers.

king and a crone

       Table of Contents

      Golden, golden,

      Light unfolding,

      Busily, merrily, work and play,

      In flowery meadows,

      And forest shadows,

      All the length of a Summer day!

      All the length of a Summer day!

      Sprightly, lightly,

      Sing we rightly,

      Moments brightly hurry away;

      Fruit-tree blossoms,

      And roses' bosoms—

      Clear blue sky of a Summer day!

      Dear blue sky of a Summer day!

      Springlets, brooklets,

      Greeny nooklets,

      Hill and Valley, and salt sea-spray,

      Comrade rovers,

      Fairy lovers—

      All the length of a Summer day

      All the livelong Summer day!

flower

flowers

       Table of Contents

      Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!

      For Summer's nearly done;

      The garden smiling faintly,

      Cool breezes in the sun;

      Our Thrushes now are silent,

      Our Swallows flown away—

      But Robin's here, in coat of brown,

      With ruddy breast-knot gay.

      Robin, Robin Redbreast,

      O Robin dear!

      Robin singing sweetly

      In the falling of the year.

      Bright yellow, red, and orange,

      The leaves come down in hosts;

      The trees are Indian Princes,

      But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;

      The scanty pears and apples

      Hang russet on the bough,

      It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,

      'Twill soon be Winter now.

      Robin, Robin Redbreast,

      O Robin dear!

      And welaway! my Robin,

      For pinching times are near.

      The fireside for the Cricket,

      The wheatstack for the Mouse,

      When trembling night-winds whistle

      And moan all round the house;

      The frosty ways like iron,

      The


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