Children's Rhymes, Children's Games, Children's Songs, Children's Stories Part 23

COWE THE NETTLE EARLY.

Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle: Gin ye be for lang kail, Cowe the nettle early.

Cowe it laich, cowe it sune, Cowe it in the month o' June; Stoo it ere it's in the bloom, Cowe the nettle early.

Cowe it by the old wa's, Cowe it where the sun ne'er fa's, Stoo it when the day daws, Cowe the nettle early.

Auld heuk wi' no ae tooth, Cowe the nettle, stoo the nettle; Auld gluive wi' leather loof, Cowe the nettle early.

The following curious song, which Mrs. Burns, the wife of the poet, was fond of crooning to her children, is not yet without some vogue outwith the printed page--though mainly in this verse, the place of which, by the bye, would be difficult to fix in the song as printed by Herd:--

The robin cam' to the wren's door, And keekit in, and keekit in: O, blessings on your bonnie pow, Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?

I wadna let you lie thereout, And I within, and I within, As lang's I hae a warm clout, To row ye in, to row ye in.

To students of Burns it will ever be of prime interest from the fact that its air, as played by Miss Jessie Lewars to the poet only a few days before his death, supplied the hint for his most tender and touching lyric, "O Wert them in the Cauld Blast." Herd prints it thus:--

THE WREN'S NEST.

The wren scho lyes in care's bed, In care's bed, in care's bed; The wren scho lyes in care's bed, Wi' meikle dule and pyne, O.

When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Redbreist, Redbreist; When in cam' Robin Redbreist, Wi' succar-saps and wine, O.

Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, Taste o' this, taste o' this; Now, maiden, will ye taste o' this, It's succar saps and wine, O?

Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Robin, Robin: Na, ne'er a drap, Robin, Though it were ne'er sae fine, O.

And where's the ring that I gied ye, That I gied ye, that I gied ye: And where's the ring that I gied ye, Ye little cutty-quean, O?

I gied it till an ox-ee, An ox-ee, an ox-ee; I gied it till an ox-ee, A true sweetheart o' mine, O.

We began with the robin in this, I hope, not wearisome but entertaining _Melange_ of child-songs. We have never, indeed, got at any time far away from the lively and interesting little fellow; and, that being so, perhaps no item could more fittingly close the series than the very old song of

ROBIN REDBREAST'S TESTAMENT.

Gude-day now, bonnie Robin, How long have you been here?

I've been bird about this bush This mair than twenty year!

But now I am the sickest bird That ever sat on brier; And I wad mak' my testament, Gudeman, if ye wad hear.

Gae tak' this bonnie neb o' mine, That picks upon the corn; And gie't to the Duke o' Hamilton To be a hunting-horn.

Gae tak' these bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my neb; And gi'e to the Lady o' Hamilton To fill a feather-bed.

Gae tak' this gude richt leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Tay; It will be a post and pillar gude-- Will neither bow nor gae.

And tak' this other leg o' mine, And mend the brig o' Weir; It will be a post and pillar gude-- Will neither bow nor steer.

Gae tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my tail: And gie to the lads o' Hamilton To be a barn-flail.

And tak' thae bonnie feathers o' mine, The feathers o' my breast: And gie to ony bonnie lad Will bring to me a priest.

Now in there came my Lady Wren Wi' mony a sigh and groan: O what care I for a' the lads If my ain lad be gone!

Then Robin turned him roundabout, E'en like a little king; Go; pack ye out o' my chamber-door, Ye little cutty quean!

Robin made his testament Upon a coll of hay; And by cam' a greedy gled And snapt him a' away.

CHILDREN'S HUMOUR AND QUAINT SAYINGS.

The humours of little folks, fresh and original, and invariably of the unconscious variety, and their quaint sayings, unrehea.r.s.ed and uttered regularly without regard to effect--though with merciless honesty often--form a never-palling treat; and every man and woman who has reared a family, or has had joy in the society of other people's children, has his and her own budget, comprising t.i.t-bits at once interesting, startling, and amusing. When occasion has saved us from the foolishly doting parent who is everlastingly prosing about the very clever things his own little Johnnie has said or done, I have seldom found greater enjoyment of a mixed company than when the queer sayings of children went round the board, and we had "recollections," by suggestion, of things which perhaps had been better left unsaid, as also of things which had been more agreeably expressed if differently worded; yet all so honestly set forth that even the "victims" could not help but enjoy them in some measure. Children accept all statements so implicitly, and, with their quick-working wits, they reason so straight-forwardly, that the application when voiced comes at times with a bang sufficient to take one's breath away. Given this and that, however, an application is unavoidable. As lief set fire behind powder in a gun and expect there will be no report. A mite of five, thus, will on occasion utter a syllogism that would not discredit a professor of logic, or will put a question to which a whole college of theologians might not venture an answer. A little lady of my acquaintance who had not yet seen her fourth birthday, was one morning told by her mother that she could not get out to play--the frost was too severe. "Who makes the frost, ma?" was asked. "G.o.d, dear." "What does He make frost for?"

"To kill the worms." "And why does He make worms, and has to make frost to kill them?" This was a sufficient poser, but the mother continued, "The worms have to be killed, else they would eat the roots of all the plants and flowers." The little lady reflected, then gravely asked, "But does G.o.d kill the wee chicky worms that never eated any roots?" The mother did not answer, but looked now even more grave than the child.

The same little miss was listening one evening to a newspaper report being read, which told how a man in a storm of wind had been blown with a ladder from a house-top in Glasgow, and was killed. "Who makes the wind?" she asked sharply. She was told. "And does G.o.d make the bad winds that kills the mans?" was demanded. There was no reply; but she read the silence as meaning "yes," and turning to leave the room she muttered more to herself than otherwise, "When I die and go to Heaven I'll not sit beside G.o.d." When repeating the _Pater-noster_ one evening she stuck at the first sentence, and wanted to know "If G.o.d is our Father in Heaven who is our Mother in Heaven?" But the mother was saved this time by the interposition of the little one's elder brother, who, with stern emphasis, exclaimed, "Stupid! G.o.d's wife, of course." A little boy-relative of that girl returned from school one day, while he was but a pupil in the infant department, and stepping proudly up to where his father was seated, "Pa," he exclaimed, "I am the cleverest boy in the cla.s.s." "Indeed," returned the parent, "I am proud to hear that; but who said it?" "The teacher." "If the teacher said so, it surely must be true. What did she say, though?" "She said, 'Stand up the cleverest boy in the cla.s.s,' and I stood up." The same little fellow was on the way to school with a friend one morning, towards the end of December, when the two were attracted by the appearance of a sweep on the chimney of a neighbouring building. "I ken what that man's doin' up there," he a.s.serted; "he's sweepin' the lums for Santa Claus to get doon." And that recalls the story I once heard of a little man in the Ca.r.s.e of Gowrie.

It happened on an evening towards the close of the year, as he was preparing for bed, and was sitting by the fire with his first liberated stocking in his hand, that he looked over to his mother, and "Mither,"

he asked, "will I get a pair o' new stockin's before Christmas?" "Maybe, laddie; but what gars ye speir?" "Because"--and he spoke mournfully, as he stuck his fingers through a large hole in the toe--"if Santa Claus puts onything intil thir anes, it'll fa' oot." How cleverly they reason, you see! "Bring me a drink o' water, Johnnie," was the order delivered by a Perths.h.i.+re farmer to his little son one day a good many years ago.

The boy went to do as he was asked, but the water-stoup had been nearly empty, and, as he was approaching his parent with the liquid, he paused and peered doubtfully into the hand-vessel, then, as if suddenly inspired by a happy thought, "Will I put meal in't, father?" he asked.

"No." "Oh, weel, then"--and he turned to go back--"ye'll need to wait till somebody gangs to the well." But to return to children I have known for yet one or two more ill.u.s.trations. I was at a tea-table one afternoon where the company was mostly composed of the smaller fry, and an incident, important to all, was mentioned, which had happened some seven or eight years before. Several of the older children declared, truthfully, that they remembered it quite well. "So do I mind o' it,"

a.s.serted a little fellow about five. "How could you mind o' it?"

questioned scornfully an older brother; "you wasna born at the time." "I ken," as scornfully returned the younger theologian; "I was dust at the time; but I mind o' it weel enough." Here is the verbatim copy of a letter written since by the hand of that same boy--in a country village in Perths.h.i.+re--where he has been staying continuously for several years, and addressed to his father in Glasgow:--"Dear Pa, The Rabbits is all dead. Worried with dogs. The gold fishes is dead. Died with the cold.

The cat has had kittens, four of them, and the rest of us is all well."

The remark of a prominent Scottish novelist who recently pa.s.sed the epistle through his hands was--"That's style, the most crisp and picturesque. And then--'the rest of us'--how beautifully innocent!"

The little girl of a friend of mind--while still of very tender years--was first taken to church by her aunt. On the way home, and soon after leaving the portals of the sacred edifice, she looked up solemnly in her guardian's face, and, "Auntie," she asked, "was yon G.o.d on the mantel-piece?" She referred doubtless to the minister in the pulpit.

Don't think of irreverence, my reader! The child, in its atmosphere of perfect innocence, knows not the word. And bear that in mind further when I tell you of a little boy and girl--both of whom I know well--who were having a walk with me one Sunday in early Autumn, when suddenly a railway train appeared in view. A train on Sunday! They were staggered by the sight; and the boy demanded to know why it should be there. "Oh, I know," exclaimed the girl, after some reflection; "it'll be G.o.d coming back from his holidays." The question, "Can prayer be answered?" may be often discussed by grown-up minds. It is never raised by the children.

No doubts trouble them in that relation. They are quite certain they will get what they ask for. Perfect confidence in that alone could have made it possible for a certain little miss, who, when being put to bed in a tired condition, and asked to say her prayer, began:--

"This night I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord----"

then gave a long, loud yawn, and added, "Oh G.o.d, I am awfully sleepy--you know the rest"--making thus, in her rude simplicity, a finely trustful and beautiful prayer. "Give us each day our daily bread," was the honest pet.i.tion of a little fellow--who, however, recalling probably some recent violent experiences, immediately added--"but dinna let our Lizzie bake it." An elaborately-trained little fellow who had nightly to pray for blessings on "mamma, and papa, grandpapa, and grandmamma," and all his uncles, his aunts, and his cousins, committing each by name, after exhausting the catalogue one evening, heaved a heavy sigh and exclaimed wearily, "Oh, dear, I wish these people would pray for themselves, for I am so tired of praying for them all!"

A little girl, whose baby brother had died, was told that he had gone to Heaven, and that night she refused to pray--"Take me to Heaven for Jesus' sake"--because, as she said; "I don't want to go to Heaven, I want to stay here, with ma, and pa, and dolly." Were all prayers as honest, many of them, I suspect, would be much shorter than they are.

I have heard of a little boy who was continually being told that he should be good.