Of beautiful spring flowers;
The big red rose
Is for your nose,
As toward the sky it towers.
‘Oh, do not frown
Upon this crown
Of green pinks and blue geranium
But think of me
When this you see,
And put it on your cranium.’
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From our happy home
One week in all the year,Making winter springWith the joy we bringFor Christmas-tide is here.Now the eastern starShines from afarTo light the poorest home;Hearts warmer grow,Gifts freely flow,For Christmas-tide has come.Now gay trees riseBefore young eyes,Abloom with tempting cheer;Blithe voices sing,And blithe bells ring,For Christmas-tide is here.Oh, happy chime,Oh, blessed time,That draws us all so…
CHEERFUL voices by the sea-side
Happy children, fresh and rosy,Sang and sported freely there,Often turning friendly glances,Where, neglectful of them all,On his bed among the gray rocks,Mused the pale child, little Paul.For he never joined their pastimes,Never danced upon the sand,Only smiled upon them kindly,Only waved his wasted hand.Many a treasured gift they bore him,Best beloved among them all.Many a…
‘Hello! hello!
It’s lovely and coolOut here in the pool;On a lily-pad floatFor a nice green boat.Here we sit and singIn a pleasant ring;Or leap frog play,In the jolliest way.Our games have begun,Come join in the fun.’
I am the monarch of the Sea,
When at anchor here I ride,My bosom swells with pride,And I snap my fingers at a foeman’s taunts.And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his auntsHis sisters and his cousins!Whom he reckons by the dozens,And his aunts!‘I am the lowliest tarThat sails the water.And you, proud maiden, areMy captain’s daughter.’‘Refrain, audacious tar.Your suit…
Thistledown in prison sings:
Soft is the summer air;Gayly the wood-birds sing,Flowers are blooming fair.But, deep in the dark, cold rock,Sadly I dwell,Longing for thee, dear friend,Lily-Bell! Lily-Bell!Lily-Bell replies:Through sunlight and summer airI have sought for thee long,Guided by birds and flowers,And now by thy song.Thistledown! Thistledown!O’er hill and dellHither to comfort theeComes Lily-Bell.
We mourn the loss of our little pet,
For never more by the fire she’ll sit,Nor play by the old green gate.The little grave where her infant sleepsIs ‘neath the chestnut tree.But o’er her grave we may not weep,We know not where it may be.Her empty bed, her idle ball,Will never see her more;No gentle tap, no loving purrIs heard at the parlor…