And it seem'd so lone and dreary That I hid myself to weep. Behind a cask of water, I hid myself for hours, And wish'd myself at home again, Among the birds and flowers. But I soon began to love The bright and sparkling main, And the swift-sailing ship That rode the watery plain; I loved to mark the sails, And see the stooping masts, That drove us on so fast; A MADRIGAL. CRABBED Age and Youth Youth like summer brave, Age's breath is short, Youth is nimble, Age is lame : Age is weak and cold, Youth is wild, and Age is tame. UNDER the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, Unto the sweet bird's throat- Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And pleased with what he getsCome hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. LITTLE BIRD! LITTLE BIRD! "LITTLE bird! little bird! come to me! I have a green cage ready for thee; I'll bring thee flowers, both red and blue, And fresh, ripe cherries all wet with dew." 66 Thanks, little maiden, for all thy care, But I dearly love the clear, cool air; And my snug little nest in the old oak tree." "Little bird! little bird stay with me. "Nay, little damsel; away I'll fly ;_ To greener fields and a warmer sky; When spring returns with pattering rain You will hear my merry song again." "Little bird, little bird! who'll guide thee Over the hills, and over the sea? Foolish one, come, and with me stay; For I'm sure you'll never find your way." "Ah, no, little maiden! God guides me Over the hills, and over the sea; I will be as free as the clear bright air, Chasing the sun-light everywhere!' FINE CLOTHES. How proud we are, how fond to show The tulip and the butterfly, Then will I set my heart to find THE FLY. WHAT a sharp little fellow is Mister Fly, He goes where he pleases, low or high, And can walk just as well with his fect to the sky, As I can on the floor; And, o'er the smooth glass Or through the keyhole of the door. He eats the sugar and goes away, And comes and plunges his head in the cream; Then on the edge of the jug he stands, And cleans his wings with his feet and hands. This done, through the window he hurries away, And gives a buzz, as if to say, "At present I haven't a minute to stay, But I'll peep in again in the course of the day." Then away he'll fly, Where the sunbeams lie, Nor bid one good-bye: Such a strange little fellow is Mister Fly, Who goes where he pleases, low or high, And can walk on the ceiling, Without ever feeling A fear of tumbling down "sky high." |