Kensington Rhymes Part 2

Blue skies and marguerites, Mother's new gown!

Lavender, lavender!

Summer's in town!

Blue seas and yellow sands, Children have flown.

Lavender, lavender!

Bunchy and sweet!

No one wants lavender All down our street.

Lavender girls in London never learn to play, Give them a penny, a penny before you go away.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GOOD-NIGHT]

[Ill.u.s.tration: SUMMER HOLIDAYS]

WHEN I was small and went to bed Before the sun went down, My cot was woven out of gold Like a princess's gown.

And in the garden every night, I used to hear the birds, And from the people on the lawn A pleasant sound of words.

The garden was quite full of pinks Whose smell came blowing in Through windows open very wide Where gnats would dance and spin.

And as I lay in my cool cot, I'd think of daylight hours, Poppies and ox-eyed daisies white, And all the roadside flowers

Now lifting up their drooping heads In the long-shadow time; I'd listen for my mother's step The narrow stairs to climb.

And as she bent to say good-night And heard me say my prayer, She seemed a bit of mignonette, She was so sweet and fair.

And just as I was dozing off, I'd hear some jolly talk Of aunts and uncles setting out To take their supper-walk.

I'd hear their voices die away In the green curly lane; But I was always fast asleep When they came back again.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE UNPLEASANT MOON]

THE moon is not much use to me, She rises far too late: I'm fonder of the friendly fire That crackles in the grate.

But when I wake up in the night And find the fire asleep, His ashes make a horrid noise And mice begin to creep.

And then the moon crawls in between The curtains and the floor, And when I turn my face away, She's crawling round the door.

Oh, then I wish she was the fire, I like his light the most; He does not give the furniture A sort of shaking ghost.

I hide my head beneath the clothes And shut my eyes up tight, And then I see queer dancing wheels And spots of coloured light.

They do not comfort me at all, But pa.s.s the time away Until I hear the milkman's can And know that it is day.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SUGGESTIONS ABOUT SLEEP]

I'VE heard it said that the dustman Is responsible for our sleep, That he puts a pinch of dust in our eyes When the stars begin to peep.

If this is true it would quite explain The horrible dreams that come, For the dustman looks a rough sort of chap, And his cart smells awfully rum.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DUSTMAN]

I've tried to talk to the dustman, But his voice is fearfully hoa.r.s.e; And once I put a penny in the bin-- It was taken out of course.

But for all the good it did my dreams, I need not have put it in; Perhaps he thought that the penny had slipped By accident into the bin.

It seems absurd in this civilised age[G]

That our dreams should still be bad; If the dustman _is_ responsible I think he must be mad.

It's horrid enough to lie awake, And count the k.n.o.bs on the bed; But it's horrider far to go to sleep, In fact I'd sooner be dead.

I expect that then if one had bad dreams And woke up in a fright, There would be an angel somewhere about To strike a cheerful light.

And your governess is not always glad, If you wake her up to say That a witch has been chasing you down a street Where the people have gone away.

[G] Father said this about something.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE RARE BURGLAR]

IT'S extremely unusual, my mother declares, For a burglar to sleep at the top of the stairs: The policemen, she says, are so terribly sure That daily the number of burglars gets fewer.

They are caught by the dozen as morning comes round And dragged off to cells very deep underground: And there they repent of their wicked bad lives, With occasional visits from children and wives.

So every night when I lie in my bed, I listen to hear the policeman's deep tread.

I've a whistle that hangs on a piece of white cord, And it's much more consoling than any tin sword: For I know, if I blow, the policeman will come And make the old burglar look awfully glum.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE GERMAN BAND]

I LOVE to lie in bed and hear The jolly German band.

Why people do not care for it I cannot understand.

They do not mind the orchestra.

And that makes far more noise; They quite forget that music is A thing that one enjoys.

When grown-up people come and call, I have to play for them; And once a deaf old lady said My playing was a gem.

But it's not true for them to say The Carnival de Venise[H]

With three wrong notes is better than A band that plays with ease.

It comes each week at eight o'clock, And when I hear it play, I am a knight upon a horse And riding far away.

The lines upon the blanket are Six armies marching past, Six armies marching on a plain, Six armies marching fast.

Of course I am the general, I'm riding at the head; But suddenly the music stops And then I'm back in bed.

Each time it plays brings different thoughts, Exciting, sad and good.

I'm sailing in a sailing s.h.i.+p, I'm walking in a wood.

I'm going to the pantomime, I'm at the hippodrome.

But when the music stops, why then I always am at home.