Who said: "You English rogue, look here!

What fruits and spices fine Our land produces twice a year!

Thou hast not such in thine!"

The Cheshire man ran to his hold, And fetched a Cheshire cheese, And said: "Look here, you dog, behold, We have such fruits as these!

"Your fruits are ripe but twice a year, As you yourself do say; But such as I present you here, Our land brings twice a day."

The Spaniard in a pa.s.sion flew, And his rapier took in hand; The Cheshire man kicked up his heels, Saying: "Thou art at my command."

So never let a Spaniard boast While Cheshire men abound, Lest they should teach him, to his cost, To dance a Cheshire round.

THREE WELCH HUNTERS

There were three jovial Welchmen, As I've heard them say, And they would go a-hunting Upon St David's day.

All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find, But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind.

One said it was a ship, The other said, nay; The third said it was a house, And the chimney blown away.

And all the night they hunted, And nothing could they find, But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind.

One said it was the moon The other said, nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o't cut away.

LAMENT OF A MOTHER, WHOSE CHILD WAS STOLEN BY FAIRIES

_From the Gaelic._

I left my bairnie lying here, Lying here, lying here; I left my bairnie lying here, To go and gather blaeberries.

I've found the wee brown otter's track, Otter's track, otter's track; I've found the wee brown otter's track, But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

I found the swan's track on the lake, On the lake, on the lake; I found the swan's track on the lake, But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

I found the track of the yellow fawn, Yellow fawn, yellow fawn; I found the track of the yellow fawn, But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

I found the trail of the mountain mist, Mountain mist, mountain mist; I found the trail of the mountain mist, But cannot trace my bairnie, O!

This is my birthday, do you know?

Once I was four, that's long ago; Once I was three, and two, and one, Only a baby that could not run.

Now I am five, so old and so strong, I could run races all the day long!

And I mean to grow bigger, and stronger, and older, Some day perhaps I shall be a brave soldier.

I think I'm the happiest boy alive!

Oh, wouldn't you like to be me--now I'm five?

GRACE FOR A LITTLE CHILD

Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as paddocks though they be Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat, and on us all.

"I do not like to go to bed,"

Sleepy little Harry said; "Go, naughty Betty, go away, I will not come at all, I say!"

Oh, what a silly little fellow, I should be quite ashamed to tell her; Then Betty, you must come and carry This very foolish little Harry.

The little birds are better taught, They go to roosting when they ought; And all the ducks and fowls, you know, They went to bed an hour ago.

The little beggar in the street, Who wanders with his naked feet, And has no where to lay his head, Oh, he'd be glad to go to bed.

My child, when we were children, Two children little and gay, We crept into the hen-roost, And hid behind the hay.

We crowed as doth the c.o.c.k crow, When people pa.s.sed that road, Cried "c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo!"

They thought the c.o.c.k had crowed.

The chests that lay in the court We papered and made so clean, And dwelt therein together-- We thought them fit for a queen.

Oft came our neighbour's old cat, With us an hour to spend; We made her curtseys and bows, And compliments without end.

There was one little Jim, 'Tis reported of him, And must be to his lasting disgrace-- That he never was seen With his hands at all clean, Nor yet ever clean was his face.

His friends were much hurt To see so much dirt, And often they made him quite clean; But all was in vain, He was dirty again, And not at all fit to be seen.

When to wash he was sent, He reluctantly went With water to splash himself o'er; But he seldom was seen To have washed himself clean, And often looked worse than before.

The idle and bad, Like this little lad, May be dirty and black to be sure; But good boys are seen To be decent and clean, Although they are ever so poor.

CLEANLINESS

Come my little Robert, near-- Fie! what filthy hands are here!

Who, that e'er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine, Work itself of hands divine, Strong yet delicately knit, For ten thousand uses fit, Overlaid with so clear skin You may see the blood within,-- Who this hand would choose to cover With a crust of dirt all over, Till it looked in hue and shape Like the forefoot of an ape!

Man or boy that works or plays In the fields or the highways, May, without offence or hurt, From the soil contract a dirt Which the next clear spring or river Washes out and out for ever.

But to cherish stains impure, Soil deliberate to endure, On the skin to fix a stain Till it works into the grain, Argues a degenerate mind, Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined, Wanting in that self-respect Which doth virtue best protect.

All-endearing cleanliness, Virtue next to G.o.dliness, Easiest, cheapest, needfull'st duty, To the body health and beauty; Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it?

Little Willie from his mirror Sucked the mercury all off, Thinking, in his childish error, It would cure his whooping-cough.

At the funeral, Willie's mother Smartly said to Mrs Brown, "'Twas a chilly day for William When the mercury went down."

_Chorus_

"Ah, ah, ah!" said Willie's mother, "Oh, oh, oh!" said Mrs Brown, "'Twas a chilly day for William When the mercury went down!"

FEIGNED COURAGE