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Pilliam Cillen Bryanto






"Who bears upon his baby brow the round
And top of sovereignty."

What is the little one thinking about ?

Very wonderful things, no doubt ;
Look at me with thy large brown eyes,

Unwritten history !
Philip, my king!

Unfathomed mystery !
For round thee the purple shadow lies

Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, Of babyhood's royal dignities.

As if his head were as full of kinks Lay on my neck thy tiny hand

And curious riddles as any sphinx ! With Love's invisible sceptre laden;

Warped by colic, and wet by tears, I am thine Esther, to command

Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden,

Our little nephew will lose two years ;
Philip, my king !

And he'll never know

Where the summers go ; 0, the day when thou goest a-wooing,

He need not laugh, for he'll find it so.
Philip, my king!
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing,

Who can tell what a baby thinks ?
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,

Who can follow the gossamer links Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there

By which the manikin feels his way Sittest love-glorified ! — Rule kindly,

Out from the shore of the great unknown, Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ;

Blind, and wailing, and alone,
For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly,

Into the light of day ?
Philip, my king !

Out from the shore of the unknown sea,

Tossing in pitiful agony ;
I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Philip, my king!

Specked with the barks of little souls,
The spirit that there lies sleeping now

Barks that were launched on the other side, May rise like a giant, and make men bow And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers.

What does he think of his mother's eyes? My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer, What does he think of his mother's hair ? Let me behold thee in future years !

What of the cradle-roof, that flies
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,

Forward and backward through the air ?
Philip, my king;

What does he think of his mother's breast,

Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, Seeking it ever with fresh delight, Philip, my king!

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way

What does he think when her quick embrace Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ;

Presses his hand and buries his face Rebels within thee and foes without

Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, With a tenderness she can never tell, glorious,

Though she murmur the words
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout,

Of all the birds,
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, Words she has learned to murmur well ?
Philip, the king!”

Now he thinks he 'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep


Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips !
Softly sinking, down he goes !
Down he goes ! down he goes !
See ! he's hushed in sweet repose.



I HAVE got a new-born sister ;
I was nigh the first that kissed her.
When the nursing-woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter,
How papa's dear eyes did glisten !
She will shortly be to christen;
And papa has made the offer,
I shall have the naming of her.
Now I wonder what would please her,
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ?
Ann and Mary, they ’re too common;
Joan's too formal for a woman;
Jane's a prettier name beside ;
But we had a Jane that died.
They would say, if ’t was Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker.
Edith 's pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books ;
Ellen 's left off long ago ;
Blanche is out of fashion now.
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret.
Emily is neat and fine ;
What do you think of Caroline ?
How I'm puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next!
I am in a little fever
Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her ;
I will leave papa to name her.


Making every limb all motion ;
Catchings up of legs and arms ;
Throwings back and small alarms ;
Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ;
Twining feet whose each toe works ;
Kickings up and straining risings ;
Mother's ever new surprisings ;
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under ;
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings
That have more of love than lovings;
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness that we prize such sinning ;
Breakings dire of plates and glasses ;
Graspings small at all that passes ;
Pullings off of all that's able
To be caught from tray or table ;
Silences, — small meditations
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations ;
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches;
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing ;
Slumbers, such sweet angel-seemings
That we'd ever have such dreamings ;
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we'd always have thee waking ;
Wealth for which we know no measure ;
Pleasure high above all pleasure ;
Gladness brimming over gladness ;
Joy in care ; delight in sadness ;
Loveliness beyond completeness ;
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ;
Beauty all that beauty may be ; –
That's May Bennett ; that's my baby.




Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.

How he crawls
Up the walls,

Yet he never falls !
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.

There he goes
On his toes,
Tickling Baby's nose.

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ;
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness ; round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise ;
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness ;
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ;
Happy smiles and wailing cries ;
Crows, and laughs, and tearful eyes;
Lights and shalows, swifter born
Than on wind-swept autumn corn;
Ever some new tiny notion,

Spots of red
Dot his head;
Rainbows on his back are spread ;

That small speck
Is his neck ;
See him nod and beck.

I can show you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes, -

Three small pairs,
Made of hairs;
These he always wears.

Flies have hairs too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home;

But the gmat
Wears a hat.
Do you believe that ?

Black and brown
Is his gown;
He can wear it upside down ;

It is laced
Round his waist;

I admire his taste.
Yet though tight his clothes are made,
He will lose them, I'm afraid,

If to-night
He gets sight
Of the candle-light.

Flies can see
More than we,
So how bright their eyes must be !

Little fly,
Ope your eye;

Spiders are near by.
For a secret I can tell,
Spiders never use flies well.

Then away
Do not stay.
Little fly, good day.



WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
"Are the weans in their bed ? for it's now ten


In the sun
Webs are spun;
What if he gets into one ?

When it rains
He complains

On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I;
God has given the little fly

No such things,
So he sings

With his buzzing wings.
He can eat
Bread and meat ;
There's his mouth between his feet.

On his back
Is a pack

Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand ?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand ;

Put a crumb
On her thumb,

Maybe he will come.
Catch him ? No,
Let him go,
Never hurt an insect so;

But no doubt
He flies out

Just to gad about.
Now you see his wings of silk
Drabbled in the baby's milk;

Fie, O fie,
Foolish fly!
How will he get dry?

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben ?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin'

hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie

a cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa'


Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue :- glow'rin' like

the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a

cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin'

folk !

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel ! Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera cel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her

thrums : Hey, Willie Winkie ! - See, there he comes !

All wet flies
Twist their thighs ;
Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ;

Cats, you know,
Wash just so,
Then their whiskers grow.

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his

lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he 'll close

an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.


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