Chee, chee, chee,

_William Cullen Bryant._

Wishing

Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!

The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm tree for our king!

Nay--stay! I wish I were an Elm tree, A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay!

The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing.

Oh no! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing!

Well--tell! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?

Before a day was over, Home comes the rover.

For mother's kiss--sweeter this Than any other thing.

_William Allingham._

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head; And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck; if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down.

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!

_Charles Wolfe._

How Many Seconds in a Minute?

How many seconds in a minute?

Sixty, and no more in it.

How many minutes in an hour?

Sixty for sun and shower.

How many hours in a day?

Twenty-four for work and play.

How many days in a week?

Seven both to hear and speak.

How many weeks in a month?

Four, as the swift moon runn'th.

How many months in a year?

Twelve, the almanack makes clear.

How many years in an age?

One hundred, says the sage.

How many ages in time?

No one knows the rhyme.

_Christina G. Rossetti._

To-day

Here hath been dawning another blue day: Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?

Out of Eternity this new day was born; Into Eternity, at night, will return.

Behold it aforetime no eye ever did; So soon it forever from all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning another blue day: Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?

_Thomas Carlyle._

The Wind and the Moon