The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 52 : THE FAIRY BOOK In summer, when the gra.s.s is thick, if mother has the time, She shows

THE FAIRY BOOK

In summer, when the gra.s.s is thick, if mother has the time, She shows me with her pencil how a poet makes a rhyme, And often she is sweet enough to choose a leafy nook, Where I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.

In winter, when the corn's asleep, and birds are not in song, And crocuses and violets have been away too long, Dear mother puts her thimble by in answer to my look, And I cuddle up so closely when she reads the Fairybook.

And mother tells the servants that of course they must contrive To manage all the household things from four till half-past five, For we really cannot suffer interruption from the cook, When we cuddle close together with the happy Fairybook.

Norman Gale [1862-

FAIRY SONGS

I From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

Over hill, over dale, Through bush, through brier, Over park, over pale, Through flood, through fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favors, In those freckles live their savors: I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.

II From "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Th.o.r.n.y hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence!

Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence.

Philomel, with melody, Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!

Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby.

III From "The Tempest"

Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Court'sied when you have, and kissed,-- The wild waves whist,-- Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.

Hark, hark!

Bow, wow, The watch-dogs bark: Bow, wow.

Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, c.o.c.k-a-diddle-dow!

IV From "The Tempest"

Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

QUEEN MAB From "The Satyr"

This is Mab, the Mistress-Fairy, That doth nightly rob the dairy And can hurt or help the churning, As she please without discerning.

She that pinches country wenches If they rub not clean their benches, And with sharper nails remembers When they rake not up their embers: But if so they chance to feast her, In a shoe she drops a tester.

This is she that empties cradles, Takes out children, puts in ladles: Trains forth old wives in their slumber With a sieve the holes to number; And then leads them from her burrows, Home through ponds and water-furrows.

She can start our Franklins' daughters, In their sleep, with shrieks and laughters: And on sweet Saint Anna's night Feed them with a promised sight, Some of husbands, some of lovers, Which an empty dream discovers.

Ben Jonson [1573?-1637]

THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE

Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf, Out of the rain, to shelter himself.

Under the toadstool sound asleep, Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.

Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.

To the next shelter--maybe a mile!

Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,

Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.

Holding it over him, gayly he flew.

Soon he was safe home, dry as could be.

Soon woke the Dormouse--"Good gracious me!

"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented.

--And that's how umbrellas first were invented.

Oliver Herford [1863-1935]

"OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS?"

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, When snow lies on the hills, When frost has spoiled their mossy beds, And crystallized their rills?

Beneath the moon they cannot trip In circles o'er the plain; And draughts of dew they cannot sip, Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells They plunge beneath the waves, Inhabiting the wreathed sh.e.l.ls That lie in coral caves.

Perhaps, in red Vesuvius Carousals they maintain; And cheer their little spirits thus, Till green leaves come again.

When they return, there will be mirth And music in the air.

And fairy wings upon the earth, And mischief everywhere.

The maids, to keep the elves aloof, Will bar the doors in vain; No key-hole will he fairy-proof When green leaves come again.