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Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.
CHOOSING A NAME.
I HAVE got a new-born sister ;
Making every limb all motion ;
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
. BABY BYE.
How he crawls
Yet he never falls !
There he goes
CHEEKS as soft as July peaches ;
Spots of red
That small speck
Flies have hairs too short to comb,
But the gnat
I can show you, if you choose,
Three small pairs,
These he always wears,
It is laced
I admire his taste.
Flies can see
Spiders are near by.
In the sun
When it rains
On the window-panes.
No such things,
With his buzzing wings.
On his back
Like a pedler's sack.
Put a crumb
Maybe he will come.
But no doubt
Just to gad about.
Fie, O fie,
How will he get dry?
Cats, you know,
Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue :— glow'rin' like
the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a
cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what- wauknin' sleepin'
Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her
thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes !
Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close
an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength . anew to me.
God knoweth all;
Mousy nibbles in the wall ; The clock strikes one :- like day, Dreams o'er thy pillow play.
Wakes the nun in convent cell ; The clock strikes two: - they go To choir in a row.
The wind it blows,
The cock he crows; The clock strikes three :- the wagoner In his straw bed begins to stir.
The steed he paws the floor,
Creaks the stable-door ; The clock strikes four :- 't is plain, The coachman sifts his grain.
That's puss. Climbing tree, and catching bird, Little twitter nevermore heard,
The swallow's laugh the still air shakes,
The sun awakes ; The clock strikes five :- the traveller must be
gone, He puts his stockings on.
The hen is clacking,
The ducks are quacking; The clock strikes six :- awake, arise, Thou lazy hag; come, ope thy eyes.
· Quick to the baker's run;
The rolls are done ; The clock strikes seven :'Tis time the milk were in the oven.
Put in some butter, do,
And some fine sugar too ;
TRANSLATION OF CHARLES T. BROOKS.
BABY LOUISE. I'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the
skies, God's sunshine, Baby Louise.
When you fold your hands, Baby Louise, Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught
prayer You learned above, Baby Louise ? .
(From the "Boy's Horn of Wonders," a German Book of Nursery
The moon it shines,
My darling whines; The clock strikes twelve : -- God cheer The sick, both far and near,
I'm in love with you, Baby Louise ! — 10, pray to them softly, my baby, with me! Why! you never raise your beautiful head! I And say thou wouldst rather Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red 1 They'd watch o'er thy father! With a flush of delight, to hear the words said, For I know that the angels are whispering to “I love you,” Baby Louise.
thee.” Do you hear me, Baby Louise ?
The dawn of the morning I have sung your praises for nearly an hour,
Saw Dermot returning, .. And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower. And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And - you 've gone to sleep, like a weary flower,
And closely caressing Ungrateful Baby Louise !
Her child with a blessing,
TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.
TIMELY blossom, Infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn and every night
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please ;
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue ;
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandoned to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush ;
Like the linnet in the bush
To the mother-linnet's note
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May In Ireland they have a pretty fancy, that, when a chid smiles in
Flitting to each bloomy spray ; its sleep, it is "talking with angels.
Wearied then and glad of rest,
Like the linnet in the nest :
This thy present happy lot,
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever busy Time prepares ;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see, to me!”
This picture, once, resembled thee.
Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,
"0, blest be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,
TO MY INFANT SON.
Thou tiny image of myself !
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin;
THE LOST HEIR. (My dear, the child is swallowing a pin !)
"O where, and where
Is my bonnie laddie gone?" — OLD SONG. Thou little tricksy Puck !
ONE day, as I was going by With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
That part of Holborn christened High, Light as the singing bird that rings the air, —
I heard a loud and sudden cry (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the
That chilled my very blood; stair!)
And lo! from out a dirty alley, Thou darling of thy sire ! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally, Thou imp of mirth and joy!
Bedaubed with grease and mud. In love's dear chain so bright a link,
She turned her East, she turned her West, Thou idol of thy parents ;– (Drat the boy !
Staring like Pythoness possest, There goes my ink.)
With streaming hair and heaving breast,
As one stark mad with grief. Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, “O Lord ! O dear, my heart will break, I shall In harmless sport and mirth,
go stick stark staring'wild ! (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail !) Has ever a one seen anything about the streets
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey like a crying lost-looking child ? From every blossom in the world that blows, Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
run, if I only knew which way — (Another tumble ! That's his precious nose!) A Child as is lost about London streets, and esThy father's pride and hope !
pecially Seven Dials, is a needle in a (He'll break that mirror with that skipping- bottle of hay. . rope !)
I am all in a quiver — get out of my sight, do, With pure heart newly stamped from nature's you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! mint,
You promised to have half an eye to him, you (Where did he learn that squint?)
know you did, you dirty deceitful young
drab. Thou young domestic dove !
The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was (He'll have that ring off with another shove,)
with my own blessed Motherly eyes, Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing (Are these torn clothes his best ?)
at making little dirt-pies. Little epitome of man !
| I wonder he left the court, where he was better (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan,)
off than all the other young boys, Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning
f dawning With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, life,
and a dead kitten by way of toys. (He's got a knife !)
| When his Father comes home, and he always Thou enviable being !
comes home as sure as ever the clock No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
strikes one, Play on, play on,
| He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being My elfin John!
lost; and the beef and the inguns not Toss the light ball, bestride the stick,
done! . (I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) | La bless you, good folks, mind your own conWith fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
carns, and don't be making a mob in the Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
street; With many a lamb-like frisk!
| 0 Sergeant M'Farlane! you have not come across (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !) my poor little boy, have you, in your Thou pretty opening rose !
beat ? (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your Do, good people, move on ! don't stand staring nose !)
at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Balmy and breathing music like the south,
Saints forbid ! but he's p'r’aps been inviggled (He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
away up a court for the sake of his clothes Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove;
by the priggs; (I 'll tell you what, my love,
He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought I cannot write unless he's sent above.)
it myself for a shilling one day in Rag THOMAS HOOD.