Dutch Lullaby

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,
Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
For the fish in the twinkling foam,

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Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home;

'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought 't was 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 the 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.

1889.

Eugene Field.

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1832.

A PETITION TO TIME

TOUCH us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently, as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Humble voyagers are We,

Husband, wife, and children three

(One is lost,-an angel, fled

To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time!

We've not proud nor soaring wings:

Our ambition, our content,

Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are we,
O'er Life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime;-
Touch us gently, gentle Time!

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16

Bryan Waller Procter.

THE MAHOGANY TREE

CHRISTMAS is here:

Winds whistle shrill,

Icy and chill,

Little care we:

THE AGE OF WISDOM

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win,

This is the way that boys begin,—

Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window panes,—

Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear-
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was past away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone,

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