Children's Rhymes, Children's Games, Children's Songs, Children's Stories Part 17

"Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!"

"And you will have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?"

"Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life!"

"And you will have him Jenny, Your husband now to be?"

"Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily."

Then on her finger fair c.o.c.k Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says Parson Rook, While the lark aloud did sing:

"Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!

And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide!"

The birds were asked to dine; Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had c.o.c.k Robin known.

They had a cherry pie, Besides some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine.

Now they all sat or stood, To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think.

They each took a b.u.mper, And drank to the pair; c.o.c.k Robin the bridegroom, And Jenny the fair.

The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place For a mile around to ring.

The concert it was fine, And every birdie tried Who best should sing for Robin And Jenny Wren the bride.

When in came the Cuckoo, And made a great rout; He caught hold of Jenny, And pulled her about.

c.o.c.k Robin was angry, And so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry His bow and his arrow.

His aim then he took, But he took it not right, His skill was not good, Or he shot in a fright;

For the Cuckoo he missed, But c.o.c.k Robin he killed!

And all the birds mourned That his blood was so spilled.

Yet another song of the Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a youthful vocalist. I don't know that it ever had a t.i.tle, but we will call it

THE NORTH WIND.

The North wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the Robin do then, poor thing?

He will sit in the barn, And keep himself warm, With his little head under his wing, poor thing!

It is not claimed for these pieces that they belong to any high order of verse--though really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very first. In point of popularity alone, they are not surpa.s.sed by "Paradise Lost," nor by the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then, they have so thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the affections of the wee folks, that, with old and young alike--for the young so soon grow into the old, alas!--there are no compositions in the world better secured for the honour and glory of immortal fame. They have not been very often printed, I have said--not often in recent years, at least--and the reason, I suppose, is because it was not deemed necessary to set out in print what everybody knows so well by heart. It must be refreshing for the eye, however, to scan what is so familiar to the ear, and I make no apology--yea, I hope to be thanked for their appearance in this little book for bairns and big folk. Let the next be

LITTLE BO-PEEP.

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And doesn't know where to find them; Let them alone, and they'll come home, Bringing their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep.

And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For still they all were fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed.

For they'd left their tails behind them.

It happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray Under a meadow hard by, That she espied their tails, side by side, All hung on a tree to dry.

She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks went stump-o; And tried as she could, as a shepherdess should, To tack again each to its rump-o.

The ballad lacks sadly in particulars, to be sure. How the tails of the entire flock disappeared in one fell swoop--whether by malice aforethought, at the instance of a lurking enemy, or in a miraculous accident, whilst the young shepherdess slept at her charge--has never been told, though thousands of wondering pows, multiplied by ten, have wanted to know. Perhaps it is better not explained. Mystery is so often just another word for charm.

We will now have the curious tale of "The House that Jack Built." In no sense a curious house, perhaps, but famous because of the fortuitous events which issued in regular sequence from the simple fact of the builder having stored a quant.i.ty of malt within its walls. It is told best with the accompaniment of pictorial ill.u.s.trations, but here these are not available.

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

This is the house that Jack built.

This is the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built

This is the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

This is the c.o.c.k that crowed in the morn And waked the priest all shaven and shorn That married the man all tattered and torn That kissed the maiden all forlorn That milked the cow with the crumpled horn That tossed the dog That worried the cat That killed the rat That ate the malt That lay in the house That Jack built.

It has been a satisfaction to many a little boy, I am sure, to feel that he was not, by many miles, so simple as that most abject of all simpletons, familiar to him as--