The stork
Last night the Stork came stalking, And, Stork, beneath your wing Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber, The tiniest little thing! From Babyland, out yonder Beside a silver sea, You brought a priceless treasure As
With brutus in st. jo
Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best; Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone, So
Our biggest fish
When in the halcyon days of old, I was a little tyke, I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like; And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was
The ride to bumpville
Play that my knee was a calico mare Saddled and bridled for Bumpville; Leap to the back of this steed, if you dare, And gallop away to Bumpville! I hope you’ll be sure to
Little Mack
This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh, We’ve got a Western editor that’s little, but, O gosh! He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so set In ante-bellum
Orkney Lullaby
A moonbeam floateth from the skies, Whispering, “Heigho, my dearie! I would spin a web before your eyes, A beautiful web of silver light, Wherein is many a wondrous sight Of a radiant garden
Krinken
Krinken was a little child, It was summer when he smiled. Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to him, Calling, “Sun-child, come to me; Let me warm my heart
Ailsie, My Bairn
Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn, Lie in my arms and dinna greit; Long time been past syn I kenned you last, But my harte been allwais the same, my swete. Ailsie, I
The dead babe
Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, In agony I knelt and said: “0 God! what have I done, Or in what wise offended Thee, That Thou should’st take away from me My
Mother and child
One night a tiny dewdrop fell Into the bosom of a rose, “Dear little one, I love thee well, Be ever here thy sweet repose!” Seeing the rose with love bedight, The envious sky
Hymn
(FROM THE GERMAN OF MARTIN LUTHER) O heart of mine! lift up thine eyes And see who in yon manger lies! Of perfect form, of face divine It is the Christ-child, heart of mine!
Two idylls from bion the smyrnean
I Once a fowler, young and artless, To the quiet greenwood came; Full of skill was he and heartless In pursuit of feathered game. And betimes he chanced to see Eros perching in a
Norse lullaby
The sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night, And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: “Sleep,
Kissing time
‘T is when the lark goes soaring And the bee is at the bud, When lightly dancing zephyrs Sing over field and flood; When all sweet things in nature Seem joyfully achime – ‘T
The dreams
Two dreams came down to earth one night From the realm of mist and dew; One was a dream of the old, old days, And one was a dream of the new. One was