« 前へ次へ »
THE PIN, NEEDLE, AND SCISSORS.
You fuss so at a fall or hurt,
every one will be annoyed
Go forth, ye Pins, and bring home news
WE ARE SEVEN.
A SIMPLE child,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage girl ;
She was eight years old, she said ;
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her beauty made me glad.
WE ARE SEVEN.
" Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be ?"
And wondering looked at me.
s And where are they, I pray you tell ?”
She answered, “ Seven are we;
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
Dwell near them, with my mother."
“ You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Sweet maid, how this may be."
Then did the little maid reply,
“ Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.”
“ You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive ;
Then ye are only five.”
“ Their graves are green, they may be scen,"
The little maid replied, “ Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
I sit and sing to them.
" And often, after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
“ The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay
And then she went away.
" So in the churchyard she was laid ;
And when the grass was dry, Together round the grave we played,
My brother John and I.
“ And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
And he lies by her side."
“How many are you, then,” said I,
“ If they two are in heaven?" The little maiden did reply,
56 O master, we are seven."
• But they are dead, those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven." "T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will,
And said, “ Nay, we are seven."
JOHN BARLEYCORN.- Burns,
THERE were three kings into the East,
Three kings, both great and high,
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and ploughed him down,
Put clods upon his head,
John Barleycorn was dead.
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall,
And sore surprised them all.
The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale,
Showed he began to fail.
His color sickened more and more,
He faded into age;
To show their deadly rage.