In My Nursery Part 17

Now for the shirt, my Baby oh!

Soft and warm, and as white as snow.

Puffy white petticoats, fluffy white gown; Why, what a great ball of thistle-down!

Last come the curls, my Baby oh!

Soft as silver they fall and flow.

Now toss him up and carry him down, The bonniest Baby in Boston town!

LITTLE BLACK MONKEY.

Little black Monkey sat up in a tree, Little black Monkey he grinned at me; He put out his paw for a cocoanut, And he dropped it down on my occiput.

The occiput is a part, you know, Of the head which does on my shoulders grow; And it's very unpleasant to have it hit, Especially when there's no hair on it.

I took up my gun, and I said, "Now, why, Little black Monkey, should you not die?

I'll hit you soon in a vital part!

It may be your head, or it may be your heart."

I steadied my gun, and I aimed it true; The trigger it snapped and the bullet it flew; But just where it went to I cannot tell, For I never _could_ find where that bullet fell.

Little black Monkey still sat in the tree, And placidly, wickedly grinned at me.

I took up my gun and I walked away, And postponed his death till another day.

JIPPY AND JIMMY.

Jippy and Jimmy were two little dogs.

They went to sail on some floating logs; The logs rolled over, the dogs rolled in, And they got very wet, for their clothes were thin.

Jippy and Jimmy crept out again.

They said, "The river is full of rain!"

They said, "The water is far from dry!

Ki-hi! ki-hi! ki-_hi_-yi! ki-hi!"

Jippy and Jimmy went shivering home.

They said, "On the river no more we'll roam; And we won't go to sail until we learn how, Bow-wow! bow-wow! bow-_wow_-wow! bow-wow!"

MASTER JACK'S SONG.

[_Written after spending the Christmas Holidays at Grandmamma's._]

You may talk about your groves, Where you wander with your loves.

You may talk about your moonlit waves that fall and flow.

Something fairer far than these I can show you, if you please.

'Tis the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

_Chorus._ Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.

The fairest spot to me, On the land or on the sea, Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

There the golden peaches shine In their syrup clear and fine, And the raspberries are blushing with a dusky glow.

And the cherry and the plum Seem to beckon you to come To the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

_Chorus._ Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.

The fairest spot to me, On the land or on the sea, Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

There the sprightly pickles stand, With the catsup close at hand, And the marmalades and jellies in a goodly row.

While the quinces' ruddy fire Would an anchorite inspire To seek the little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

_Chorus._ Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.

The fairest spot to me, On the land or on the sea, Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

Never tell me of your bowers That are full of bugs and flowers!

Never tell me of your meadows where the breezes blow!

But sing me, if you will, Of the house beneath the hill, And the darling little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

_Chorus._ Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jam-pots grow!

Where the jelly jolly, jelly jolly jam-pots grow.

The fairest spot to me, On the land or on the sea, Is the charming little cupboard where the jam-pots grow.

MOTHER ROSEBUSH.

There are roses that grow on a vine, on a vine, There are roses that grow on a stalk; But my little Rose Grows on ten little toes, So I'll take my Rose out for a walk.

Come out in the garden, Rosy Posy, Come visit your cousins, child, with me!

If you are my daughter, it stands to reason Your own Mother Rosebush I must be.

Now, here is your cousin Damask, Rosy!

And, Rosy, here is your cousin Blush; General Jacqueminot, (Your uncle, you know,) Salutes you hero with his crimson flush.

Here's Gloire de Dijon, a splendid fellow, All creamy and dreamy and soft and sweet; And Cloth-of-Gold, with his coat of yellow, Is dropping rose-n.o.bles here at your feet.