Part 1 (1/2)
In My Nursery.
by Laura E. Richards.
IN MY NURSERY.
In my nursery as I sit, To and fro the children flit: Rosy Alice, eldest born, Rosalind like summer morn, St.u.r.dy Hal, as brown as berry, Little Julia, shy and merry, John the King, who rules us all, And the Baby sweet and small.
Flitting, flitting to and fro, Light they come and light they go: And their presence fair and young Still I weave into my song.
Here rings out their merry laughter, Here their speech comes tripping after: Here their pranks, their sportive ways, Flash along the lyric maze, Till I hardly know, in fine, What is theirs and what is mine: Can but say, through wind and weather, They and I have wrought together.
THE BABY'S FUTURE.
What will the baby be, Mamma, (With a kick and a crow, and a hushaby-low).
What will the baby be, Mamma, When he grows up into a man?
Will he always kick, and always crow, And flourish his arms and his legs about so, And make up such horrible faces, you know, As ugly as ever he can?
The baby he may be a soldier, my dear, With a fife and a drum, and a rum-tiddy-tum!
The baby he may be a soldier, my dear, When he grows up into a man.
He will draw up his regiment all in a row, And flourish his sword in the face of the foe, Who will hie them away on a tremulous toe, As quickly as ever they can.
The baby he may be a sailor, my dear, With a fore and an aft, and a tight little craft The baby he may be a sailor, my dear, When he grows up into a man.
He will hoist his sails with a ”Yo! heave, ho!”
And take in his reefs when it comes on to blow, And s.h.i.+ver his timbers and so forth, you know, On a genuine nautical plan.
The baby he may be a doctor, my dear, With a powder and pill, and a nice little bill.
The baby he may be a doctor, my dear, When he grows up into a man.
He will dose you with rhubarb, and calomel too, With draughts that are black and with pills that are blue; And the chances will be, when he's finished with you, You'll be worse off than when he began.
The baby he may be a lawyer, my dear, With a bag and a fee, and a legal decree.
The baby he may be a lawyer, my dear, When he grows up into a man.
But, oh! dear me, should I tell to you The terrible things that a lawyer can do, You would take to your heels when he came into view, And run from Beersheba to Dan.
BABY'S HAND.
Like a little crumpled roseleaf It lies on my bosom now, Like a tiny sunset cloudlet, Like a flake of rose-tinted snow; And the pretty, helpless fingers Are never a moment at rest, But ever are moving and straying About on the mother's breast: Trying to grasp the sunbeam That streams through the window high; Trying to catch the white garments Of the angels hovering by.
And as she pats and caresses The dear little lovely hand, The mother's thoughts go forward Toward the future's shadowy land.
And ever her anxious vision Strives to pierce each coming year, With a mother's height of rapture, With a mother's depth of fear, As she thinks, ”In the years that are coming, Be they many or be they few, What work is the good G.o.d sending For this little hand to do?
Will it always be open in giving, And always strong for the right?
Will it always be ready for labor, Yet always gentle and light?
Will it wield the brush or the chisel In the magical realms of Art?