Ping-Pong.

Sing a song of Ping-pong,
    Fast away he ran:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
    "Catch me if you can!"

Sing a song of Ping-pong,
    Racquet and a ball:
"Come along," said Ping-pong,
    "You can't run at all!"

Richard Hunter

No biography available

Richard Hunter

The Cowboy.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

Dame Crump.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

The Swinging Clown.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

Policeman.

Richard Hunter, Simple Poetry

English

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The Find

    Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,
    They're running - they're running, Go hark!
    The sport may be lost by a moment's delay;
    So whip up the puppies and scurry away.
Dash down through the cover by dingle and dell,
There's a gate at the bottom - I know it full well;
And they're running - they're running,
    Go hark!

    They're running - they're running, Go hark!
    One fence and we're out of the park;
    Sit down in your saddles and race at the brook,
    Then smash at the bullfinch; no time for a look;
Leave cravens and skirters to dangle behind;
He's away for the moors in the teeth of the wind,
And they're running - they're running,
    Go hark!

    They're running - they're running, Go hark!
    Let them run on and run ...

Charles Kingsley

The Imp.

You may call him an imp,
    Or a gnome or a sprite;
And whate'er you call him
    You are sure to be right.

He is here, he is there,
    He will never stay long;
If you think he is caught,
    You are sure to be wrong.

Richard Hunter

Brownie.

There is a brown dolly
    Who has a guitar;
She plays on it always,
    Tra lal, tra lal la!

She has a new ditty
    For every day;
I wish you could hear it,
    Tra lal, tra lal lay!

Richard Hunter

Play.

Play, play, while as yet it is day:
While the sweet sunlight is warm on the brae!
Hark to the lark singing lay upon lay,
While the brown squirrel eats nuts on the spray
And in the apple-leaves chatters the jay!
Play, play, even as they!
What though the cowslips ye pluck will decay,
What though the grass will be presently hay?
What though the noise that ye make should dismay
Old Mrs. Clutterbuck over the way?
Play, play, for your locks will grow gray;
Even the marbles ye sport with are clay.

Play, ay in the crowded highway:
Was it not made for you? Yea, my lad, yea.
True that the babes you were bid to convey
Home may fall out or be stolen or stray;
True that the tip-cat you toss about may
Strike an old gentleman, cause him to sway,
Stumble, and ...

Charles Stuart Calverley

Nursery Rhyme. CCCIX. Games.

        Here goes my lord
    A trot, a trot, a trot, a trot,
        Here goes my lady
    A canter, a canter, a canter, a canter!
            Here goes my young master
        Jockey-hitch, Jockey-hitch, Jockey-hitch, Jockey-hitch:
            Here goes my young miss,
        An amble, an amble, an amble, an amble!
    The footman lays behind to tipple ale and wine,
    And goes gallop, a gallop, a gallop, to make up his time.

Unknown

The Swinging Clown.

        Swing up!
        Swing down!
Here goes the clown.

        Swing left!
        Swing right!
Mind you hold tight.

        Swing low!
        Swing high!
Right to the sky.

Richard Hunter