SLEEP, little brother, you must not awaken
Till mother comes back to her baby again:
Weary and long is the way she has taken,

Over the common, and through the green glen,
Up the steep hill, by the path that is nearest,
Thinking of you as she hurries along,

Sleep then, and dream that she's watching you, dearest, Rocking your cradle, and singing her song.

In the still room there's no sound to disquiet,
Only the clock ticking even, and low,
Only the bird in his cage hanging by it,
Chirping a note as he hops to and fro.
Out in the sunlight the woodbine is stirring,
Filling the air with its fragrance so sweet;
On the low window-seat pussy sits purring,
Washing her face with her little white feet.
Far down the lane merry voices are ringing,
Comrades have beckon'd me out to their play.
Why did you start? it is I that am singing:
Why did
frown? I'm not going away.
Could I forsake you for play, or for pleasure,
Lying alone in your helplessness here?
How could I leave you, my own little treasure,
No one to rock you, and no one to cheer?

you

In the room corners I watch the dark shadows,
Deepening, and lengthening, as evening comes on:
Soon will the mowers return from the meadows;
Far to the westward the red sun is gone.
By the green hedge-row, I see her now coming,
Where the last sunbeam is just on her track.
Still I sit by you, love, drowsily humming;
Sleep, little baby, till mother comes back.

A NURSERY SONG.

As I walk'd over the hills one day,

I listen'd, and heard a mother-sheep say: "In all the green world there is nothing so sweet As my little lammie with his nimble feet,

With his eye so bright,

And his wool so white:

Oh! he is my darling, my heart's delight.
The robin, he

That sings in the tree,

Dearly may dote on his darlings four;
But I love my one little lambkin more."
And the mother-sheep and her little one
Side by side lay down in the sun,

As they went to sleep on the hill-side warm,
While my
little lammie lies here on my arm.

I went to the kitchen, and what did I see
But the old grey cat with her kittens three?
I heard her whispering soft-said she,

"My kittens, with tails all so cunningly curl'd,
Are the prettiest things that can be in the world.
The bird on the tree,
And the old ewe, she
May love their babies exceedingly ;

But I love my kittens there,

Under the rocking-chair.

I love my kittens with all my might,

I love them at morning, and noon, and night.

C

Which is the prettiest, I cannot tell,

Which of the three, for the life of me,

I love them all so well.

Now I'll take up my kitties, the kitties I love,

And we'll lie down together beneath the warm stove."
Let the kitties sleep under the stove so warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.

I went to the yard, and saw the old hen
Go clucking about with chickens ten.

She cluck'd, and she scratch'd, and she bristled away;
And what do you think I heard the hen say?

I heard her say,

"The sun never did shine On anything like to these chickens of mine.

You may hunt the full moon, and the stars, if you please,
But you never will find ten such chickens as these.
The cat loves her kitten, the ewe loves her lamb;
But they do not know what a proud mother I am;
Nor for lambs nor for kittens will I part with these,
Though the sheep and the cat should get down on their
No, no! not though

The kittens could crow,

Or the lammie on two yellow legs could go.

My own dear darlings! my sweet little things!
Come, nestle now cosily under my wings."
So the hen said,

And the chickens all sped

[knees:

As fast as they could to their nice feather-bed;
And there let them sleep, in their feathers so warm,
While my little chick nestles here on my arm.

"THE squirrel is happy, the squirrel is gay,"
Little Henry exclaim'd to his brother;
"He has nothing to do or to think of but play,
And to jump from one bough to another."

But William was older and wiser, and knew
That all play and no work wouldn't answer,
So he ask'd what the squirrel in winter must do,
If he spent all the summer a dancer.

The squirrel, dear Harry, is merry and wise,
For true wisdom and mirth go together;

He lays up in summer his winter supplies,
And then he don't mind the cold weather.