Poems Every Child Should Know

Poems Every Child Should Know

Mary E. Burt

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PART I.

The Budding Moment

A dog and a cat

The Arrow and the Song.

The Arrow and the Song, by Longfellow (1807-82), is placed first in this volume out of respect to a little girl of six years who used to love to recite it to me. She knew many poems, but this was her favourite.

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

Henry W. Longfellow.

The Babie.

I found The Babie in Stedman's Anthology. It is placed in this volume by permission of the poet, Jeremiah Eames Rankin, of Cleveland (1828-), because it captured the heart of a ten-year-old boy whose fancy was greatly moved by the two beautiful lines:

"Her face is like an angel's face,

I'm glad she has no wings."

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes,

Nae stockin' on her feet;

Her supple ankles white as snaw,

Or early blossoms sweet.

Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink,

Her double, dimplit chin,

Her puckered lips, and baumy mou',

With na ane tooth within.

Her een sae like her mither's een,

Twa gentle, liquid things;

Her face is like an angel's face:

We're glad she has nae wings.

Jeremiah Eames Rankin.

Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite.

Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite, by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), and Little Drops of Water, by Ebenezer Cobham Brewer (1810-97), are poems that the world cannot outgrow. Once in the mind, they fasten. They were not born to die.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite,

For God hath made them so;

Let bears and lions growl and fight,

For 'tis their nature too.

But, children, you should never let

Such angry passions rise;

Your little hands were never made

To tear each other's eyes.

Isaac Watts.

Little Things.

Little drops of water,

Little grains of sand,

Make the mighty ocean

And the pleasant land.

Thus the little minutes,

Humble though they be,

Make the mighty ages

Of eternity.

Ebenezer Cobham Brewer.

He Prayeth Best.

These two stanzas, the very heart of that great poem, The Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), sum up the lesson of this masterpiece—Insensibility is a crime.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!

He prayeth well who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best

All things, both great and small:

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

Samuel T. Coleridge.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star!

How I wonder what you are,

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

When the glorious sun is set,

When the grass with dew is wet,

Then you show your little light,

Twinkle, twinkle all the night.

In the dark-blue sky you keep,

And often through my curtains peep,

For you never shut your eye,

Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark

Guides the traveller in the dark,

Though I know not what you are,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star!

Pippa.

Spring's at the Morn, from Pippa Passes, by Robert Browning (1812-89), has become a very popular stanza with little folks. All's right with the world is a cheerful motto for the nursery and schoolroom.

The year's at the spring,

The day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hillside's dew pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn;

God's in His heaven—

All's right with the world!

Robert Browning.

The Days of the Month.

The Days of the Month is a useful bit of doggerel that we need all through life. It is anonymous.

Thirty days hath September,

April, June, and November;

February has twenty-eight alone.

All the rest have thirty-one,

Excepting leap-year—that's the time

When February's days are twenty-nine.

Old Song.

True Royalty.

True Royalty and Playing Robinson Crusoe are pleasing stanzas from The Just So Stories of Rudyard Kipling (1865-).

There was never a Queen like Balkis,

From here to the wide world's end;

But Balkis talked to a butterfly

As you would talk to a friend.

There was never a King like Solomon,

Not since the world began;

But Solomon talked to a butterfly

As a man would talk to a man.

She was Queen of Sabaea—

And he was Asia's Lord—

But they both of 'em talked to butterflies

When they took their walks abroad.

Rudyard Kipling.

(In The Just So Stories.)

Playing Robinson Crusoe.

Pussy can sit by the fire and sing,

Pussy can climb a tree,

Or play with a silly old cork and string

To 'muse herself, not me.

But I like Binkie, my dog, because

He knows how to behave;

So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was,

And I am the Man in the Cave.

Pussy will play Man-Friday till

It's time to wet her paw

And make her walk on the window-sill

(For the footprint Crusoe saw);

Then she fluffles her tail and mews,

And scratches and won't attend.

But Binkie will play whatever I choose,

And he is my true First Friend.

Pussy will rub my knees with her head,

Pretending she loves me hard;

But the very minute I go to my bed

Pussy runs out in the yard.

And there she stays till the morning light;

So I know it is only pretend;

But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,

And he is my Firstest Friend!

Rudyard Kipling.

(In The Just So Stories.)

My Shadow.

My Shadow, by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-94), is one of the most popular short poems extant. I have taught it to a great many very young boys, and not one has ever tried to evade learning it. Older pupils like it equally well.

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward, you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

Little White Lily.

This poem (George Macdonald, 1828-) finds a place in this volume because, as a child, I loved it. It completely filled my heart, and has made every member of the lily family dear to me. George Macdonald's charming book, At the Back of the North Wind, also was my wonder and delight.

Little White Lily

Sat by a stone,

Drooping and waiting

Till the sun shone.

Little White Lily

Sunshine has fed;

Little White Lily

Is lifting her head.

Little White Lily

Said: "It is good

Little White Lily's

Clothing and food."

Little White Lily

Dressed like a bride!

Shining with whiteness,

And crownèd beside!

Little White Lily

Drooping with pain,

Waiting and waiting

For the wet rain.

Little White Lily

Holdeth her cup;

Rain is fast falling

And filling it up.

Little White Lily

Said: "Good again,

When I am thirsty

To have the nice rain.

Now I am stronger,

Now I am cool;

Heat cannot burn me,

My veins are so full."

Little White Lily

Smells very sweet;

On her head sunshine,

Rain at her feet.

Thanks to the sunshine,

Thanks to the rain,

Little White Lily

Is happy again.

George Macdonald.

How the Leaves Came Down.

How the Leaves Came Down, by Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to children because it helps to reconcile them to going to bed. I go to bed by day is one of the crosses of childhood.

I'll tell you how the leaves came down,

The great Tree to his children said:

"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,

Yes, very sleepy, little Red.

It is quite time to go to bed."

Ah! begged each silly, pouting leaf,

"Let us a little longer stay;

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!

'Tis such a very pleasant day,

We do not want to go away."

So, for just one more merry day

To the great Tree the leaflets clung,

Frolicked and danced, and had their way,

Upon the autumn breezes swung,

Whispering all their sports among—

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget,

And let us stay until the spring,

If we all beg, and coax, and fret."

But the great Tree did no such thing;

He smiled to hear their whispering.

Come, children, all to bed, he cried;

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,

He shook his head, and far and wide,

Fluttering and rustling everywhere,

Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,

Golden and red, a huddled swarm,

Waiting till one from far away,

White bedclothes heaped upon her arm,

Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.

Good-night, dear little leaves, he said.

And from below each sleepy child

Replied, Good-night, and murmured,

It is so nice to go to bed!

Susan Coolidge.

Willie Winkie.

Wee Willie Winkie, by William Miller (1810-72), is included in this volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from among hundreds. We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied and recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year.

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,

Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown,

Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,

Are the weans in their bed?—for it's now ten o'clock.

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?

The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;

But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep.

Onything but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon,

Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock,

Skirlin' like a kenna-what—wauknin' sleepin' folk.

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel!

Waumblin' aff a body'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,

A wee stumpie stoussie that canna rin his 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.

William Miller.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, by Edward Lear (1812-88), is placed here because I once found that a timid child was much strengthened and developed by learning it. It is a song that appeals to the imagination of children, and they like to sing it.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat;

They took some honey, and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the moon above,

And sang to a small guitar,

"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love!

What a beautiful Pussy you are,—

You are,

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!

How wonderful sweet you sing!

Oh, let us be married,—too long we have tarried,—

But what shall we do for a ring?"

They sailed away for a year and a day

To the land where the Bong-tree grows,

And there in a wood a piggy-wig stood

With a ring in the end of his nose,—

His nose,

With a ring in the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring? Said the piggy, I will,"

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined upon mince and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon,

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand

They danced by the light of the moon,—

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, by Eugene Field (1850-95), pleases children, who are all by nature sailors and adventurers.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.

Where are you going, and what do you wish?

The old moon asked the three.

"We have come to fish for the herring-fish

That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we,"

Said Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea.

"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,—

Never afeard are we!"

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,—

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home:

'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea;

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one's trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock on the misty sea

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Eugene Field.

The Duel.

The Duel, by Eugene Field (1850-95), is almost the most popular humorous poem that has come under my notice. In making such a collection as this it is not easy to find poems at once delicate, witty, and graphic. I have taught The Duel hundreds of times, and children invariably love it.

The gingham dog and the calico cat[**link to part1 img?]

Side by side on the table sat;

'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)

Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!

The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate

Appeared to know as sure as fate

There was going to be a terrible spat.

(I wasn't there; I simply state

What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went bow-wow-wow!

And the calico cat replied mee-ow!

The air was littered, an hour or so,

With bits of gingham and calico,

While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place

Up with its hands before its face,

For it always dreaded a family row!

(Now mind: I'm only telling you

What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,

And wailed, Oh, dear! what shall we do!

But the gingham dog and the calico cat

Wallowed this way and tumbled that,

Employing every tooth and claw

In the awfullest way you ever saw—

And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

(Don't fancy I exaggerate!

I got my views from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning where the two had sat

They found no trace of the dog or cat;

And some folks think unto this day

That burglars stole the pair away!

But the truth about the cat and the pup

Is this: They ate each other up!

Now what do you really think of that!

(The old Dutch clock it told me so,

And that is how I came to know.)

Eugene Field.

The Boy Who Never Told a Lie.

The Boy Who Never Told a Lie (anonymous), as well as Whatever Brawls Disturb the Street, by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), are real gems. A few years ago they were more in favour than the poorer verse that has been put forward. But they are sure to be revived.

Once there was a little boy,

With curly hair and pleasant eye—

A boy who always told the truth,

And never, never told a lie.

And when he trotted off to school,

The children all about would cry,

"There goes the curly-headed boy—

The boy that never tells a lie."

And everybody loved him so,

Because he always told the truth,

That every day, as he grew up,

'Twas said, There goes the honest youth.

And when the people that stood near

Would turn to ask the reason why,

The answer would be always this:

Because he never tells a lie.

Love Between Brothers and Sisters.

Whatever brawls disturb the street,

There should be peace at home;

Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,

Quarrels should never come.

Birds in their little nests agree;

And 'tis a shameful sight,

When children of one family

Fall out and chide and fight.

Isaac Watts.

The Bluebell of Scotland.

Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone?

He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne;

And it's oh! in my heart how I wish him safe at home.

Oh where! and oh where! does your