The

Inglenook

There's not a comb of honey-bee,
So full of sweets as babe to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

There's not a star that shines on high,
Is brighter than my baby's eye.
There's not a boat upon the sea,
Can dance as baby does to me.

And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

No silk was ever spun so fine

As is the hair of baby mine

My baby smells more sweet to me

Than smells in spring the elder tree.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

A little fish swims in the well,
So in my heart does baby dwell.

A little flower blows on the tree,
My baby is the flower to me.

And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball,
You are my sceptre, crown and all.
For all her robes of royal silk,

More fair your skin, as white as milk.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

Ten thousand parks where deer run,
Ten thousand roses in the sun.

Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea,
My baby more precious is to me.
And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.
WEST OF ENGLAND LULLABY.

The Inglenook

The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl'

The bonniest bairn in a' the warl'

Has skin like the drifted snaw,
An' rosy wee cheeks sae saft an' sleek—
There never was ither sic twa;

Its een are just bonnie wee wander'd stars,
Its leggies are plump like a farl,

An' ilk ane maun see't, an' a' maun declare't
The cleverest bairn,

The daintiest bairn,

The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn,

The dearest, queerest,

Rarest, fairest,

Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'.

The bonniest bairn in a' the warl'
Ye ken whaur the ferlie lives?

It's doon in yon howe, it's owre yon knowe-
In the laps o' a thousand wives;

It's up an' ayont in yon castle brent,

The heir o' the belted earl;

The Inglenook

It's sookin' its thoomb in yon gipsy tent

The cleverest bairn,

The daintiest bairn,

The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn,

The dearest, queerest,

Rarest, fairest,

Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'.

ROBERT FORD

Cuddle Doon

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
Wi' muckle faucht an' din;
Oh, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues,
Your father's comin' in.

They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gi'e a froon,

But aye I hap them up, an' cry,

66

"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid-
He aye sleeps neist the wa',
Bangs up an' cries, “I want a piece":

66

The rascal starts them a’.

I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop awee the soun';

Then draw the blankets up and cry,

"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab

66

Cries oot frae 'neath the claes,

Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance-
He's kittlin' wi' his taes."

The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,

He'd bother half the toon:

But aye I hap them up an' cry, "O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

At length they hear their father's fit,
An', as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa',
While Tam pretends to snore.
"Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,
As he pits aff his shoon;

"The bairnies, John, are in their beds,

An' lang since cuddled doon."

An' just afore we bed oorsel's,

We look at oor wee lambs;

Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,
An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.

I lift wee Jamie up the bed,

An', as I straik each croon,

I whisper, till my heart fills up,

66

"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,

Wi' mirth that's dear to me;

The Inglenook

The

Inglenook

But sune the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.

Yet come what will to ilka ane,

May He who sits aboon

Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,

66

"O, bairnies, cuddle doon."

ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

I Am Lonely

The world is great: the birds all fly from me,
The stars are golden fruit upon a tree
All out of reach: my little sister went,
And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines, where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher: little Lisa went

And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by
I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry
And hurt my heart: my little sister went,

And I am lonely.

The world is great: the people laugh and talk,
And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!
I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,

And I am lonely.

From "The Spanish Gypsy."

GEORGE ELIOT.