Foreword To Bib Ballads

Dear Parents: - Don't imagine, please,
It's in a boastful spirit
I fashion verses such as these;
That's not the truth or near it.

A hundred or a thousand, yes,
A million kids there may be
Who aren't one iota less
Attractive than this baby.

I'll venture that your household has
As valuable a treasure
As mine, but mine I know, and as
For yours, I've not that pleasure.

And that is why my book's about
Just one, O Dads and Mothers;
But babes are babes, and mine, no doubt,
Is very much like others.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

Ringgold Wilmer 'Ring' Lardner was an American sports columnist and short story writer best known for his satirical takes on sports figures and the cultural mores of the Jazz Age. Born on March 6, 1885, in Niles, Michigan, he began his career as a journalist but soon gained fame for his humorous and poignant short stories. His works often featured the American slang vernacular and painted an evocative picture of early 20th-century American life. Lardner passed away on September 25, 1933.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

My Baby's Garden

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner, Simple Poetry

Confession

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner, Simple Poetry

An Appreciative Audience

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner, Simple Poetry

Coming Home

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

My Baby's Garden

My baby has a garden,
"Planted" four days ago,
And nearly half his waking hours
He spends among his precious flowers
With sprinkling can and hoe.

My baby has a garden,
And Oh, how proud he is
When, yielding to his pleading, we
Lay work aside and go to see
This masterpiece of his!

Behold my baby's garden,
Close by a rubbish pile!
Look at the sprinkling can and hoe
And flowers; then tell me if you know
Whether to sigh or smile.

The flowers in baby's garden,
Flat on the ground they lie,
Two hyacinths, a withered pair,
Plucked from the pile of rubbish, where
They had been left to die.

The flowers in baby's garden,
"Planted" four days ago,
Grow every hour a sadder sight,
Weaker and sicklier, in spite
O...

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

Her Eyes Are Wild

I

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone:
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.

II

"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here,
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.

III

"A fire was once within my brain;
And in ...

William Wordsworth

The Emigrant Mother

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
Where she was childless, daily would repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
My song the workings of her heart expressed.

I

"Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
An infant's face and looks are thine,
And sure a ...

William Wordsworth

The Eternal Greeting

What is the welcoming word I hear
When I reach home at the close of day?
"Glad you are with us, daddy, dear?"
Something I'd like to hear you say?
No, it is this, invariably:
"Daddy, what have you got for me?"

"Deep affection," I might reply;
What would it profit if I did?
I might answer: "The price to buy
Clothes and edibles for you, kid."
You would repeat, insistently:
"Daddy, what have you got for me?"

Isn't my Self enough for you?
Doesn't my Presence satisfy?
No, that spelling would never do;
You want Presents, a new supply,
When you inquire so eagerly:
"Daddy, what have you got for me?"

'Twould be much nicer and cheaper, son,
If I were welcome without a toy,
But as I'm not, I must purchase one
And take my reward f...

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner

The Love Child

Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride,
Wi' his wide arches' cool sheäded bow,
Up above the clear brook that did slide
By the poppies, befoam'd white as snow;
As the gilcups did quiver among
The white deäsies, a-spread in a sheet.
There a quick-trippèn maïd come along,
Aye, a girl wi' her light-steppèn veet.


An' she cried "I do praÿ, is the road
Out to Lincham on here, by the meäd?"
An' "oh! ees," I meäde answer, an' show'd
Her the way it would turn an' would leäd:
"Goo along by the beech in the nook,
Where the children do plaÿ in the cool,
To the steppèn stwones over the brook,
Aye, the grey blocks o' rock at the pool."


"Then you don't seem a-born an' a-bred,"
I spoke up, "at a place here about;"
And she answer'd wi' cheä...

William Barnes

The New Plaything

I wonder what your thought will be
And what you'll say and do, sir,
When you come home again and see
What Daddy's got for you, sir.

I wonder if you'll like it, boy,
Or turn away disgusted
(You've often scorned a nice, new toy
For one that's old and busted.)

I wonder if you'll laugh, or cry
And run in fright to mother,
Or just act bored to death, when I
Show you your brand new brother.

Ringgold Wilmer Lardner