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"Pipe a song about a lamb!"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again;"
So I piped: he wept to hear.
"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"
So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read."
So he vanished from my sight; And I plucked a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.
William Blake [1757-1827]
THE WONDERFUL WORLD
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful gra.s.s upon your breast, World, you are beautifully dressed.
The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-- It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"
William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]
THE WORLD'S MUSIC
The world's a very happy place, Where every child should dance and sing, And always have a smiling face, And never sulk for anything.
I waken when the morning's come, And feel the air and light alive With strange sweet music like the hum Of bees about their busy hive.
The linnets play among the leaves At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing; While, flas.h.i.+ng to and from the eaves, The swallows twitter on the wing.
The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway; And tall old trees you could not climb; And winds that come, but cannot stay, Are gaily singing all the time.
From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel Makes music, going round and round; And dusty-white with flour and meal, The miller whistles to its sound.
And if you listen to the rain When leaves and birds and bees are dumb, You hear it pattering on the pane Like Andrew beating on his drum.
The coals beneath the kettle croon, And clap their hands and dance in glee; And even the kettle hums a tune To tell you when it's time for tea.
The world is such a happy place, That children, whether big or small, Should always have a smiling face, And never, never sulk at all.
Gabriel Setoun [1861-
A BOY'S SONG
Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the cl.u.s.tering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
James Hogg [1770-1835]
GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE A Boy's Song
With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.
Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.
"Is this, is this your joy?
O bird, then I, though a boy, For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!"
Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss?
'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.
Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.
Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.
Henry Charles Beeching [1859-1919]
PLAYGROUNDS
In summer I am very glad We children are so small, For we can see a thousand things That men can't see at all.
