She has a little silver wand, And when a good child goes to bed She waves her wand from right to left, And makes a circle round its head.

And then it dreams of pleasant things, Of fountains filled with fairy fish, And trees that bear delicious fruit, And bow their branches at a wish;

Of arbors filled with dainty scents From lovely flowers that never fade; Bright flies that glitter in the sun, And glow-worms shining in the shade.

And talking birds with gifted tongues, For singing songs and telling tales, And pretty dwarfs to show the way Through fairy hills and fairy dales.

But when a bad child goes to bed, From left to right she weaves her rings, And then it dreams all through the night Of only ugly horrid things!

Then lions come with glaring eyes, And tigers growl, a dreadful noise, And ogres draw their cruel knives, To shed the blood of girls and boys.

Then stormy waves rush on to drown, Or raging flames come scorching round, Fierce dragons hover in the air, And serpents crawl along the ground.

Then wicked children wake and weep, And wish the long black gloom away; But good ones love the dark, and find The night as pleasant as the day.

TO HENRIETTA,[37]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR CALAIS.

[Footnote 37: The daughter of Hood's friend William Harvey, the artist.]

When little people go abroad, wherever they may roam, They will not just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France.

Of course you will be Frenchified; and first, it's my belief, They'll dress you in their foreign style as a-la-mode as beef, With a little row of beehives, as a border to your frock, And a pair of frilly trousers, like a little bantam cock.

But first they'll seize your bundle (if you have one) in a crack, And tie it with a tape by way of bustle on your back; And make your waist so high or low, your shape will be a riddle, For anyhow you'll never have your middle in the middle.

Your little English sandals for a while will hold together, But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather; For they'll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!) In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!

What next?--to fill your head with French to match the native girls, In scraps of _Galignani_ they'll screw up your little curls; And they'll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose, And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.

You'll have to learn a _chou_ is quite another sort of thing To that you put your foot in; that a _belle_ is not to ring; That a _corne_ is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes; Nor _peut-etre_ a potato, as _some_ Irish folks suppose.

No, No, they have no Murphies there, for supper or for lunch, But you may get in course of time a _pomme de terre_ to munch, With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing, You'll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!

But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite, No matter what you eat or drink, "whatever is, is right!"

So when you're told at dinner-time that some delicious stew Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer "_Tant mi--eux_!"

For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam, They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home; So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance, Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!

A PARTHIAN GLANCE.

"Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail."--ROGERS.

Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days, And lift up a little Oblivion's veil; Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze, Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind, Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind, And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!

And as farther our back-searching glances prevail, Like the emmets, "how little we are in our eyes!"

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long, On a dimity lap of true nursery make!

I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin-- Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes, Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong--infant pleasures as weak-- But no grief was allow'd to indulge in its note; Did you ever attempt a small "bubble and squeak,"

Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?

Did you ever come down to the floor with the same?

Oh! I can't but agree with bath ends, and pronounce "Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game!

Then an urchin--I see myself urchin indeed-- With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight; Why should weeks have an end?--I am sure there was need Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday night.

Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub?

Have you ever felt huckaback soften'd with sand?

Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub, And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?

Then a school-boy--my tailor was nothing in fault, For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees,-- But how well I remember that "pepper-and-salt"

That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees!

What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke!

With a lanky right leg duly planted before; Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke, And extended _my_ arms as "the arms that he wore!"

Next a Lover--Oh! say, were you ever in love?

With a lady too cold--and your bosom too hot?

Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove, Like a _beau_ that desired to be tied in a knot?

With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue, Did you walk up the aisle--the genteelest of men?

When I think of that beautiful vision anew, Oh! I seem but the _biffin_ of what I was then!

I am withered and worn by a premature care, And wrinkles confess the decline of my days; Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair, And I'm seeking to hide it--by writing for bays!

A TRUE STORY.

Of all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental; Some bit of masticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf, But lets its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victual there is little danger, 'Tis so like coming to the _rack,_ As well as going to the manger.