WHERE the pools are bright and deep, Where the grey trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest; There to trace the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the water and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me.
I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,- The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy.
LITTLE Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice Making all the vales rejoice;
Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb:- He is meek and He is mild;
He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee; Little Lamb, God bless thee.
The moon, like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have ta'en delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen, they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are cover'd warm, They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm :— If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.
ON A SPANIEL CALLED BEAU' KILLING A YOUNG BIRD
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you, Well fed, and at his ease, Should wiser be than to pursue Each trifle that he sees.
But you have killed a tiny bird, Which flew not till to-day, Against my orders, whom you heard Forbidding you the prey.
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