RHYMES
FOR THE YOUNG FOLK.

RHYMES
FOR THE
YOUNG FOLK

BY
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
WITH PICTURES BY
HELEN ALLINGHAM, KATE GREENAWAY,
CAROLINE PATERSON, AND HARRY FURNISS
ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED,
LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE

To
GERALD, EVA, and LITTLE HENRY,
and Others like them,
this booklet
is lovingly inscribed.

Green Hills, Blue Mountains, Rocks and Streams,
Birds, Woodland, Starry-Night, Sea-Foam,
Flowers, Fairies, Children, Music, Dreams,
A Book, a Garden-Chair—Sweet Home!

Introduction.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

THE FAIRIES.

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!

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-top

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 lake,

On a bed of flag-leaves,

Watching till she wake.

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 them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

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!

THE FAIRY KING.

"High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray

He's nigh lost his wits."

The Fairy King was old.

He met the Witch of the Wold.

"Ah ha, King!" quoth she,

"Now thou art old like me."

"Nay, Witch!" quoth he,

"I am not old like thee."

The King took off his crown,

It almost bent him down;

His age was too great

To carry such a weight.

"Give it here!" she said,

And clapt it on her head.

Crown sank to ground;

The Witch no more was found.

Then sweet spring-songs were sung,

The Fairy King grew young,

His crown was made of flowers,

He lived in woods and bowers.

CHORUS OF FAIRIES.

Golden, golden,

Light unfolding,

Busily, merrily, work and play,

In flowery meadows,

And forest shadows,

All the length of a Summer day!

All the length of a Summer day!

Sprightly, lightly,

Sing we rightly,

Moments brightly hurry away;

Fruit-tree blossoms,

And roses' bosoms,—

Clear blue sky of a Summer day!

Dear blue sky of a Summer day!

Springlets, brooklets,

Greeny nooklets,

Hill and Valley, and salt sea-spray,

Comrade rovers,

Fairy lovers,—

All the length of a Summer day

All the livelong Summer day!

ROBIN REDBREAST.

Good-bye, good-bye 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,

With ruddy breast-knot gay.

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin singing 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 scanty pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough,

It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,

'Twill soon be Winter now.

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And welaway! my Robin,

For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket,

The wheatstack for the Mouse,

When trembling night-winds whistle

And moan all round the house;

The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow,—

Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,

Where can poor Robin go?

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear,

And a crumb of bread for Robin,

His little heart to cheer.

AMY MARGARET.

Amy Margaret's five years old,

Amy Margaret's hair is gold,

Dearer twenty-thousand-fold

Than gold, is Amy Margaret.

"Amy" is friend, is "Margaret"

The pearl for crown or carkanet?

Or peeping daisy, Summer's pet?

Which are you, Amy Margaret?

A friend, a daisy, and a pearl;

A kindly, simple, precious girl,—

Such, howsoe'er the world may twirl,

Be ever,—Amy Margaret!

JINGLE, JANGLE!

Jingle, jangle!

Riot and wrangle!

What shall we do

With people like you?

Here's Jingle!

There's Jangle!

Here's Riot!

There's Wrangle!

Never was seen such a turbulent crew!

You, north must go

To a hut of snow;

You, south, in a trice,

To an island of spice;

You, off to Persia

And sit on a hill,

You, to that chair

And be five minutes' still!

DREAMING.

A strange little Dream

On a long star-beam

Ran down from the midnight skies,

To curly-hair'd Fred

Asleep in his bed,

With the lids on his merry blue eyes.

Under each lid

The thin Dream slid,

And spread to a picture inside,

A new World there,

Most strange and rare,

Tho' just by our garden-side.

Rivers and Rocks,

And a Treasure-Box,

And Floating in Air without wings,

And the Speaking Beast,

And a Royal Feast,

My chair beside the King's;

A Land of Flowers,

And of lofty Towers

Carved over in marble white

With living Shapes

Of Panthers and Apes

That gambol in ceaseless flight;

And a Cellar small

With its Cave in the Wall

Stretching many a mile underground!

And the Rope from the Moon!—

Fred woke too soon,

For its end could never be found.

[Transcriber's Note: You can play this music (MIDI file) by clicking [here].]

SEASONS.

In Spring-time, the Forest,

In Summer, the Sea,

In Autumn, the Mountains,

In Winter,—ah me!

How gay, the old branches

A-swarm with new buds,

The primrose and bluebell

Fresh-blown in the woods,

All green things unfolding,

Where merry birds sing!

I love in the Woodlands

To wander in Spring.

What joy, when the Sea-waves,

In mirth and in might,

Spread purple in shadow,

Flash white into light!

The gale fills the sail,

And the gull flies away;

In crimson and gold

Sets the long Summer Day.

O pride! on the Mountains

To leave earth below;

The great slopes of heather,

One broad purple glow;

The loud-roaring torrent