Sicilian Lullaby
Hush, little one, and fold your hands;
The sun hath set, the moon is high;
The sea is singing to the sands,
And wakeful posies are beguiled
By many a fairy lullaby:
Hush, little child, my little child!
Dream, little one, and in your dreams
Float upward from this lowly place,--
Float out on mellow, misty streams
To lands where bideth Mary mild,
And let her kiss thy little face,
You little child, my little child!
Sleep, little one, and take thy rest,
With angels bending over thee,--
Sleep sweetly on that Father's breast
Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled;
But stay not there,--come back to me,
O little child, my little child!
poem by Eugene Field
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Jennie
Some men affect a liking
For the prim in face and mind,
And some prefer the striking
And the loud in womankind;
Wee Madge is wooed of many,
And buxom Kate, as well,
And Jennie--charming Jennie--
Ah, Jennie doesn't tell!
What eyes so bright as Daisy's,
And who as Maud so fair?
Who does not sing the praises
Of Lucy's golden hair?
There's Sophie--she is witty,
A very sprite is Nell,
And Susie's, oh, so pretty--
But Jennie doesn't tell!
And now for my confession:
Of all the virtues rare,
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poem by Eugene Field
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With two spoons for two spoons
How trifling shall these gifts appear
Among the splendid many
That loving friends now send to cheer
Harvey and Ellen Jenney.
And yet these baubles symbolize
A certain fond relation
That well beseems, as I surmise,
This festive celebration.
Sweet friends of mine, be spoons once more,
And with your tender cooing
Renew the keen delights of yore--
The rapturous bliss of wooing.
What though that silver in your hair
Tells of the years aflying?
'T is yours to mock at Time and Care
With love that is undying.
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poem by Eugene Field
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Little croodlin doo
Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin doo?
Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin' on the lea?
Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me--
Got a lump o' sugar an' a posie for you,
Only bring back my wee, wee croodlin doo!
Why, here you are, my little croodlin doo!
Looked in er cradle, but didn't find you there,
Looked f'r my wee, wee croodlin doo ever'where;
Ben kind lonesome all er day withouten you;
Where you ben, my little wee, wee croodlin doo?
Now you go balow, my little croodlin doo;
Now you go rockaby ever so far,--
Rockaby, rockaby, up to the star
That's winkin' an' blinkin' an' singin' to you
As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin doo!
poem by Eugene Field
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Uhland's White Stag
Into the woods three huntsmen came,
Seeking the white stag for their game.
They laid them under a green fir-tree
And slept, and dreamed strange things to see.
(FIRST HUNTSMAN)
I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush,
When out popped the noble stag--hush, hush!
(SECOND HUNTSMAN)
As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang,
I pelted him hard in the hide--piff, bang!
(THIRD HUNTSMAN)
And as that stag lay dead I blew
On my horn a lusty tir-ril-la-loo!
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poem by Eugene Field
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The Sleeping Child
My baby slept--how calm his rest,
As o'er his handsome face a smile
Like that of angel flitted, while
He lay so still upon my breast!
My baby slept--his baby head
Lay all unkiss'd 'neath pall and shroud:
I did not weep or cry aloud--
I only wished I, too, were dead!
My baby sleeps--a tiny mound,
All covered by the little flowers,
Woos me in all my waking hours,
Down in the quiet burying-ground.
And when I sleep I seem to be
With baby in another land--
I take his little baby hand--
He smiles and sings sweet songs to me.
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poem by Eugene Field
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Old English Lullaby
Hush, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder will rocke her sweete,-
Balow, my boy!
When that his toile ben done,
Daddie will come anone,-
Hush thee, my lyttel one;
Balow, my boy!
Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce
Fayries will come to daunce,-
Balow, my boy!
Oft hath thy moder seene
Moonlight and mirkland queene
Daunce on thy slumbering een,-
Balow, my boy!
Then droned a bomblebee
Saftly this songe to thee:
'Balow, my boy!'
And a wee heather bell,
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poem by Eugene Field
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Contentment
Happy the man that, when his day is done,
Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret--
The battle he has fought may not be won--
The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet;
Folding at last his hands upon his breast,
Happy is he, if hoary and forespent,
He sinks into the last, eternal rest,
Breathing these only works: 'I am content.'
But happier he, that, while his blood is warm,
See hopes and friendships dead about him lie--
Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm,
Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny;
And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate,
Girt only in the armor God hath meant
For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate
Can say to God and man: 'I am content.'
poem by Eugene Field
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To The Fountain Of Bandusia
O fountain of Bandusia!
Whence crystal waters flow,
With garlands gay and wine I'll pay
The sacrifice I owe;
A sportive kid with budding horns
I have, whose crimson blood
Anon shall dye and sanctify
Thy cool and babbling flood.
O fountain of Bandusia!
The Dog-star's hateful spell
No evil brings into the springs
That from thy bosom well;
Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
The roving cattle here
Hasten in quest of certain rest,
And quaff thy gracious cheer.
O fountain of Bandusia!
Ennobled shalt thou be,
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poem by Eugene Field
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Let Us Have Peace
In maudlin spite let Thracians fight
Above their bowls of liquor;
But such as we, when on a spree,
Should never brawl and bicker!
These angry words and clashing swords
Are quite _de trop_, I'm thinking;
Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise,
And drown your wrath in drinking.
Aha, 't is fine,--this mellow wine
With which our host would dope us!
Now let us hear what pretty dear
Entangles him of Opus.
I see you blush,--nay, comrades, hush!
Come, friend, though they despise you,
Tell me the name of that fair dame,--
Perchance I may advise you.
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poem by Eugene Field
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