The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 36

Emma Huntington Nason [1845-1921]

THE SINGING-LESSON

A nightingale made a mistake; She sang a few notes out of tune; Her heart was ready to break, And she hid away from the moon.

She wrung her claws, poor thing!

But was far too proud to weep; She tucked her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep.

A lark, arm in arm with a thrush, Came sauntering up to the place; The nightingale felt herself blush, Though feathers hid her face.

She knew they had heard her song, She felt them snicker and sneer; She thought that life was too long, And wished she could skip a year.

"Oh, Nightingale," cooed a dove-- "Oh, Nightingale, what's the use?

You bird of beauty and love, Why behave like a goose?

Don't skulk away from our sight, Like a common, contemptible fowl; You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl?

"Only think of all you have done, Only think of all you can do; A false note is really fun From such a bird as you!

Lift up your proud little crest, Open your musical beak; Other birds have to do their best-- You need only to speak."

The nightingale shyly took Her head from under her wing, And, giving the dove a look, Straightway began to sing.

There was never a bird could pa.s.s; The night was divinely calm, And the people stood on the gra.s.s To hear that wonderful psalm.

The nightingale did not care; She only sang to the skies; Her song ascended there, And there she fixed her eyes.

The people that stood below She knew but little about; And this tale has a moral, I know, If you'll try to find it out.

Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

CHANTICLEER

Of all the birds from East to West That tuneful are and dear, I love that farmyard bird the best, They call him Chanticleer.

Gold plume and copper plume, Comb of scarlet gay; 'Tis he that scatters night and gloom, And whistles back the day!

He is the sun's brave herald That, ringing his blithe horn, Calls round a world dew-pearled The heavenly airs of morn.

O clear gold, shrill and bold!

He calls through creeping mist The mountains from the night and cold To rose and amethyst.

He sets the birds to singing, And calls the flowers to rise; The morning cometh, bringing Sweet sleep to heavy eyes.

Gold plume and silver plume, Comb of coral gay; 'Tis he packs off the night and gloom, And summons home the day!

Black fear he sends it flying, Black care he drives afar; And creeping shadows sighing Before the morning star.

The birds of all the forest Have dear and pleasant cheer, But yet I hold the rarest The farmyard Chanticleer.

Red c.o.c.k or black c.o.c.k, Gold c.o.c.k or white, The flower of all the feathered flock, He whistles back the light!

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

"WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?"

From "Sea Dreams"

What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day?

Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away.

Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger.

So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away.

Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger, If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

NURSE'S SONG

When the voices of children are heard on the green And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still.

"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of the night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all covered with sheep."

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed."

The little ones leaped and shouted and laughed; And all the hills echoed.

William Blake [1757-1827]

JACK FROST

The door was shut, as doors should be, Before you went to bed last night; Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see, And left your window silver white.

He must have waited till you slept; And not a single word he spoke, But pencilled o'er the panes and crept Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane; But there are fairer things than these His fingers traced on every pane.

Rocks and castles towering high; Hills and dales, and streams and fields; And knights in armor riding by, With nodding plumes and s.h.i.+ning s.h.i.+elds.