The humming top
The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song To my dear little boy at play – Merrily singeth all day long, As it spinneth and spinneth away. And my dear little boy He laugheth
The bottle tree
A bottle tree bloometh in Winkyway land – Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! A snug little berth in that ship I demand That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away Where the Bottle Tree bloometh
At play
Play that you are mother dear, And play that papa is your beau; Play that we sit in the corner here, Just as we used to, long ago. Playing so, we lovers two Are
Little miss brag
Little Miss Brag has much to say To the rich little lady from over the way And the rich little lady puts out a lip As she looks at her own white, dainty slip,
The delectable ballad of the waller lot
Up yonder in Buena Park There is a famous spot, In legend and in history Yclept the Waller Lot. There children play in daytime And lovers stroll by dark, For ‘t is the goodliest
A Valentine
Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell I love her well. Yes, though she tramples on my heart And rends that bleeding thing apart; And though she rolls a scornful eye On doting me when
Suppose
Suppose, my dear, that you were I And by your side your sweetheart sate; Suppose you noticed by and by The distance ‘twixt you were too great; Now tell me, dear, what would you
Sicilian Lullaby
Hush, little one, and fold your hands; The sun hath set, the moon is high; The sea is singing to the sands, And wakeful posies are beguiled By many a fairy lullaby: Hush, little
Cornish Lullaby
Out on the mountain over the town, All night long, all night long, The trolls go up and the trolls go down, Bearing their packs and crooning a song; And this is the song
To emma abbott
There let thy hands be folded Awhile in sleep’s repose; The patient hands that wearied not, But earnestly and nobly wrought In charity and faith; And let thy dear eyes close The eyes that
My playmates
The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, And I hear
At Cheyenne
Young Lochinvar came in from the West, With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; The width of his hat-brim could nowhere be beat, His No. Brogans were chuck full of feet,
Horace to phyllis
Come, Phyllis, I’ve a cask of wine That fairly reeks with precious juices, And in your tresses you shall twine The loveliest flowers this vale produces. My cottage wears a gracious smile, The altar,
The duel
The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; ‘T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t’ other had slept a wink! The old
Mediaeval eventide song
Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may, And his songe ben of a