And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. EUGENE FIELD. The Drummer-Boy and the Shepherdess Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum? And why do you weep, sitting here on your thumb? The soldiers are out, and the fifes we can hear; But where is the drum of the young grenadier? "My dear little drum it was stolen away Whilst I was asleep on a sunshiny day; It was all through the drone of a big bumble Shepherdess, shepherdess, where is your crook? And why is your little lamb over the brook? It bleats for its dam, and dog Tray is not by, So why do you stand with a tear in your eye? "My dear little crook it was stolen away Whilst I dreamt a dream on a morning in May; It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee, And a drum and a drummer-boy under a tree. W. B. RANDS. The Land of Dreams "Awake, awake, my little boy! Thou wast thy mother's only joy; Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? O what land is the land of dreams? What are its mountains and what are its streams?" "O father! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair." "Dear child! I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the land of dreams, But, though calm and warm the waters wide I could not get to the other side. "Father, O father! what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear? The land of dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star. WILLIAM BLAKE. Sweet and Low Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea; Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Cradle Song O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. O hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while O Mother-My-Love, if you'll give me your hand, And go where I ask you to wander, I will lead you away to a beautiful land— Where moonlight and starlight are streaming, And the flowers and the birds are filling the air With the fragrance and music of dreaming. There'll be no little tired-out boy to undress, |