Lullaby Of The Iroquois

Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
        Wrapped in your nest,
        Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
        Its hands are your nest;
        Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best, -
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.

Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
        Winging to sleep,
        Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
        Shielding their sleep,
        Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep, -
Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Emily Pauline Johnson was a Canadian poet of mixed Mohawk and English heritage. She was born on March 10, 1861, on the Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario. Johnson became known for her performances, where she often wore a traditional Mohawk dress. Her published works include poetry, short stories, and essays that explore themes of identity, cultural heritage, and nature. She passed away on March 7, 1913, in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Golden - Of The Selkirks

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Your Mirror Frame

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

The Riders Of The Plains [1]

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Brandon

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

English

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The Birds' Lullaby

I

Sing to us, cedars; the twilight is creeping
    With shadowy garments, the wilderness through;
All day we have carolled, and now would be sleeping,
    So echo the anthems we warbled to you;
                While we swing, swing,
                And your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

II

Sing to us, cedars; the night-wind is sighing,
    Is wooing, is pleading, to hear you reply;
And here in your arms we are restfully lying,
    And longing to dream to your soft lullaby;
                While we swing, swing,
                And your branches sing,
        And we drowse to your dreamy whispering.

III

Sing to us, cedars; your voice is so lowly,
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Lullaby.

The maple strews the embers of its leaves
    O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves;
And the moody cricket falters in his cry - Baby-bye! -
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky - Baby-bye! -
    The lid of night is falling o'er the sky!

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup
Of the frosted calla-lily folded up;
And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh - Baby-bye! -
O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie - Baby-bye! -
    O'er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!

Yet, Baby - O my Baby, for your sake
This heart of mine is ever wide awake,
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye - Baby-bye! -
Till your own are wet above me when I die - Baby-bye! -
    Till your own are wet above me when I die.

James Whitcomb Riley

Lullaby.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Evening is coming, and night is nigh;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be sleeping by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Darkness is creeping along the sky;
Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,
    Slowly the moon comes sailing by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep!
    Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
    All will be waking by and by.
            Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Horace Smith

The Lullaby

When the long day leans to the twilight,
    When the Evening star climbs to the moon,
With a heart that is silently breaking,
    I sit in the gloaming and croon.
I croon a low song for my darling,
    My wee one, my baby, my own;
Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet,
    Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.

Alone with no arms to enfold her,
    Alone with no pillowing breast,
Alone with no hand on her cradle,
    To rock her to soundlier rest.
But each day in the hush of the twilight,
    Is silenced my broken heart's cry;
And I sit where I sat with my darling,
    And sing her the old lullaby.

Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking,
    The sorrow that makes the days long;
As I sit in the twilight there rocking,
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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Lullaby

The stars are twinkling in the skies,
The earth is lost in slumbers deep;
So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes,
And let me lull thy soul to sleep.
Compose thy dimpled hands to rest,
And like a little birdling lie
Secure within thy cozy nest
Upon my loving mother breast,
And slumber to my lullaby,
So hushaby--O hushaby.

The moon is singing to a star
The little song I sing to you;
The father sun has strayed afar,
As baby's sire is straying too.
And so the loving mother moon
Sings to the little star on high;
And as she sings, her gentle tune
Is borne to me, and thus I croon
For thee, my sweet, that lullaby
Of hushaby--O hushaby.

There is a little one asleep
That does not hear his mother's song;
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Eugene Field

A Fairy Lullaby

There are two stars in yonder steeps
That watch the baby while he sleeps.
But while the baby is awake
And singing gayly all day long,
The little stars their slumbers take
Lulled by the music of his song.
So sleep, dear tired baby, sleep
While little stars their vigils keep.

Beside his loving mother-sheep
A little lambkin is asleep;
What does he know of midnight gloom---
He sleeps, and in his quiet dreams
He thinks he plucks the clover bloom
And drinks at cooling, purling streams.
And those same stars the baby knows
Sing softly to the lamb's repose.

Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child--
The stars are dim--the night is wild;
But o'er the cot and o'er the lea
A sleepless eye forever beams--
A shepherd watches over thee
In ...

Eugene Field