THE "OLD, OLD SONG".

From THE WATER BABIES

CHARLES KINGSLEY

'HEN all the world is young, lad,

WH

And all the trees are green;

And every goose a swan, lad,

And

lass a queen, every

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown;

And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down, Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there You loved when all was young.

THE FAIRIES

A Child's Song

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

P the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare not go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home, -
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-tops

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music

On cold starry nights,

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring

As dig one up in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

ROBIN REDBREAST

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

WOOD-BY, good-by to summer!
For summer's nearly done;

The garden smiling faintly,

Cool breezes in the sun;

Our thrushes now are silent,
Our swallows flown away,
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
And ruddy breast-knot gay,
Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts;

The trees are Indian princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The leathery pears and apples Hang russet on the bough;

It's autumn, autumn, autumn late, 'Twill soon be winter now.