The Nine Little Goblins

They all climbed up on a high board-fence -
Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes -
Nine little Goblins that had no sense,
And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;
    And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat -
    And I asked them what they were staring at.

And the first one said, as he scratched his head
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear
And rasped its claws in his hair so red -
"This is what this little arm is fer!"
    And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,
    "How on earth do you scratch your head?"

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge -
Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;
And when he choked, with a final twinge
Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back
    With a fist that grew on the end of his tail
    Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

And the third little Goblin leered round at me -
And there were no lids on his eyes at all -
And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,
"What is the style of your socks this fall?"
    And he clapped his heels - and I sighed to see
    That he had hands where his feet should be.

Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,
Bowed his head, and I saw him slip
His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,
And paste them over his upper lip;
    And then he moaned in remorseful pain -
    "Would - Ah, would I'd me brows again!"

And then the whole of the Goblin band
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,
And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,
Singing the songs that they used to know -
    Singing the songs that their grandsires sung
    In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.

And ever they kept their green-glass eyes
Fixed on me with a stony stare -
Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,
And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,
    And I felt the heart in my breast snap to
    As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.

And they sang "You're asleep! There is no board-fence,
And never a Goblin with green-glass eyes! -
'Tis only a vision the mind invents
After a supper of cold mince-pies, -
And you're doomed to dream this way," they said, -
"And you sha'n't wake up till you're clean plum dead!"

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

Tradin' Joe

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

A Fantasy

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Dead In Sight Of Fame

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

The Cyclone.

James Whitcomb Riley, 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.

The Ghost, The Gallant, The Gael, And The Goblin

O'er unreclaimed suburban clays
Some years ago were hobblin'
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
A fine low-comedy bogy.

And as they exercised their joints,
Promoting quick digestion,
They talked on several curious points,
And raised this delicate question:
"Which of us two is Number One
The ghostie, or the goblin?"
And o'er the point they raised in fun
They fairly fell a-squabblin'.

They'd barely speak, and each, in fine,
Grew more and more reflective:
Each thought his own particular line
By chalks the more effective.
At length they settled some one should
By each of them be haunted,
And so arrange...

William Schwenck Gilbert

Toadstools

I.

Once when it had rained all night
And all day, the next day, why,
In our yard, a lot of white,
Dumpy toadstools grew close by
Our old peach tree: some were high,
Peak'd, like half-shut parasols;
Others round and low, like balls,
Little hollow balls; and I
Called my father to the tree:
And he said, "I tell you what:
Fairies have been here, you see.
This is just the kind of spot
Fairies love to live in. Those
Are their houses, I suppose.

II.

"Yes, those surely are their huts!
Built of moon and mist and rain,
Such dim stuff as Elfland puts
In her buildings. Come again,
And, like castles built in Spain,
They are nowhere. But to-night,
Sliding down the moon's slim light,
Or snail-straddled, in a train
You...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Dwarf

"Now, Jinnie, my dear, to the dwarf be off,
    That lives in Barberry Wood,
And fetch me some honey, but be sure you don't laugh, -
    He hates little girls that are rude, are rude,
    He hates little girls that are rude."

Jane tapped at the door of the house in the wood,
    And the dwarf looked over the wall,
He eyed her so queer, 'twas as much as she could
    To keep from laughing at all, at all,
    To keep from laughing at all.

His shoes down the passage came clod, clod, clod,
    And when he opened the door,
He croaked so harsh, 'twas as much as she could
    To keep from laughing the more, the more,
    To keep from laughing the more.

As there, with his bushy red beard, he stood,
    Pricked out to double its size,
He squinted...

Walter De La Mare

Little Orphant Annie

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
    Ef you
    Don't
        Watch
        Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,
An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an'...

James Whitcomb Riley

Phantasmagoria Canto IV ( Hys Nouryture )

"Oh, when I was a little Ghost,
A merry time had we!
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
They gave us for our tea."

"That story is in print!" I cried.
"Don't say it's not, because
It's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide!"
(The Ghost uneasily replied
He hardly thought it was).

"It's not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet
I almost think it is,
'Three little Ghosteses' were set
'On posteses,' you know, and ate
Their 'buttered toasteses.'

"I have the book; so if you doubt it,"
I turned to search the shelf.
"Don't stir!" he cried. "We'll do without it:
I now remember all about it;
I wrote the thing myself.

"It came out in a 'Monthly,' or
At least my agent said it did:
Some literary...

Lewis Carroll

Little Boy Bad And Little Girl Rude

My nurse she tells me stories, too,
To make me good, she says; but I
She scares me so! I want to cry:
And if my father ever knew,
I guess he'd make things pretty hot,
And show her that she'd better not.

Last night I could n't sleep, because
She scared me with a story; yes,
Because I had been bad, I guess,
And said I hated Santa Claus
And everything: and then she told
This story that just made me cold:

I.

Little Boy Bad, a way he had
Of making his father and mother mad;
Until one day he ran away
To a wood where the cats of the witches stay.
And there he tarried awhile to play,
For a little while in the witches' way.

II.

When night drew nigh he heard a cry,
And in every bush he saw an eye.
Then, three b...

Madison Julius Cawein