The Pet Rabbit.

"I HAVE a little Bunny with a coat as soft as down,
And nearly all of him is white except one bit of brown.
The first thing in the morning when I get out of bed,
I wonder if my Bunny's still safe in his little shed.

And than the next thing that I do I dare say you have guessed;
It's to go at once and see him, when I am washed and dressed.
And every day I see him I like him more and more,
And each day he is bigger than he was the day before.

I feed him in the morning with bran and bits of bread,
And every night I take some straw to make his little bed.
What with carrots in the morning and turnip-tops for tea,
If a bunny can be happy, I'm sure he ought to be.

Then when it's nearly bedtime I go down to his shed,
And say 'Good night you Bunny' before I go to bed.
I think there's only one thing that would make me happy quite,
If I could take my Bunny dear with me to bed at night?"

Lizzie Lawson

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Lizzie Lawson

Spring.

Lizzie Lawson, Simple Poetry

A Song.

Lizzie Lawson, Simple Poetry

Christmas Roses

Lizzie Lawson, Simple Poetry

Nearly Bedtime.

Lizzie Lawson, 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.

Puss In The Corner.

"You are a naughty pussy-cat,
I think it right to mention that,
To all who see your picture here,
'Twas you who broke my Bunny dear.

An hour ago, as you can tell,
I left him here, alive and well;
And now he's dead and, what is more,
You've broke his leg I'm pretty sure.

For you my puss I'll never care,
No never, never, never, there,
And you are in disgrace you know,
And in the corner you must go.

What crying? Then I must cry too
And I can't bear to punish you;
Perhaps my Bunny isn't dead,
Perhaps you've only stunned his head.

And though I'm sure you broke his leg,
It may be mended with a peg,
And though he's very, very, funny,
My Bunny's not a real Bunny,
And I'll forgive and tell you that,
...

Lizzie Lawson

Kit's Cradle.

They've taken the cosy bed away
That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.

I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.

I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.

On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.

*            *            *            *            *

I've found a crib wher...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

Bedtime.

"It's bedtime, bedtime, Cissy dear,
    It's time to put away,
Your little Noah's ark dear
    Until another day,
You know it isn't right at all
    To tire yourself with play.

And they too must be tired dear,
    The elephants want to go
To bed, - if they're much later,
    They'll all be ill I know,
And every well bred camel,
    Is in bed long ago.

And surely you can see dear,
    It really isn't right,
The little dove's so tired dear,
    She scarce can stand upright.
It does not do to keep them up
    So very late at night."

Lizzie Lawson

Battle Bunny

(Malvern Hill, 1864)


After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and musketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a corporal.
- Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill.

Bunny, lying in the grass,
Saw the shining column pass;
Saw the starry banner fly,
Saw the chargers fret and fume,
Saw the flapping hat and plume,
Saw them with his moist and shy
Most unspeculative eye,
Thinking only, in the dew,
That it was a fine review.

Till a flash, not all of steel,
Where the rolling caissons wheel,
Brought a rumble and a roar
Rolling down that velvet floor,
And like blows of autumn flail
Sharply threshed the iron hail.

Bunny, thril...

Bret Harte

The Story Book Fairy.
Shall I sing you a song, not short and not long,
Of a story-book fairy who hides all among
The covers and leaves of your pictures and prints,
And colors them all with such beautiful tints?

First he kisses the girls with the fairest of curls
Then they blush like red roses and each head whirls.
In each little eye drops a bit of blue sky,
And colors each frock with a wonderful dye.

His breathing I ween is the wonderful sheen,
That clothes trees and meadows with loveliest green,
The buttercups bold, it need hardly be told,
Are gilded by him with the finest of gold.

It is he I suppose who paints the red rose,
And the rest of the flowers which every one knows,
And the same red will do (or a similar hue),
Lizzie Lawson

The Pet-Lamb - A Pastoral
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
"Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
William Wordsworth