Three Children

        [The following was sung to the tune of Chevy Chase. It was taken from a poetical tale in the 'Choyce Poems,' 12mo, London, 1662, the music to which may be seen in D'Urfey's 'Pills to Purge Melancholy,' 1719, vol. iv, p. 1.]

    Three children sliding on the ice
        Upon a summer's day,
    As it fell out, they all fell in,
        The rest they ran away.

    Now had these children been at home,
        Or sliding on dry ground,
    Ten thousand pounds to one penny,
        They had not all been drown'd.

    You parents all that children have,
        And you that have got none,
    If you would have them safe abroad,
        Pray keep them safe at home.

Some time ago, ere we were born or thought of,
There lived a little girl, who liked to roam
Through lonely woods and lanes, unknown, unsought of
Such folk who like to stop and stay at home.
She found out curious things in all her travel
And one of her adventures I will tell:
Once, in a wood she saw a path of gravel,
Which led to a small cottage in a dell.

And, as the door stood open, in walked boldly,
This child, whose name was Silverlocks, I'm told;
There was nobody there to treat her coldly,
No friend to call her back, no nurse to scold.
She found herself within a parlour charming;
And there upon the table there were placed
Three basins, sending up a smell so warming,
That she at once felt hungry, and must taste.
The largest basin first, but hot and bi...

I hear a merry noise indeed:
Is it the geese and ducks that take
Their first plunge in a quiet pond
That into scores of ripples break,
Or children make this merry sound?

I see an oak tree, its strong back
Could not be bent an inch though all
Its leaves were stone, or iron even:
A boy, with many a lusty call,
Rides on a bough bareback through Heaven.

I see two children dig a hole
And plant in it a cherry-stone:
"We'll come to-morrow," one child said,
"And then the tree will be full grown,
And all its boughs have cherries red."

Ah, children, what a life to lead:
You love the flowers, but when they're past
No flowers are missed by your bright eyes;
And when cold winter comes at last,
Snowflakes shall be your butterflies.

Winter is fallen early
On the house of Stare;
Birds in reverberating flocks
Haunt its ancestral box;
Bright are the plenteous berries
In clusters in the air.

Still is the fountain's music,
The dark pool icy still,
Whereupon a small and sanguine sun
Floats in a mirror on,
Into a West of crimson,
From a South of daffodil.

'Tis strange to see young children
In such a wintry house;
Like rabbits' on the frozen snow
Their tell-tale footprints go;
Their laughter rings like timbrels
'Neath evening ominous:

Their small and heightened faces
Like wine-red winter buds;
Their frolic bodies gentle as
Flakes in the air that pass,
Frail as the twirling petal
From the briar of the woods.

Above them silence lours,<...

What way does the wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook
And ring a sharp 'larum; but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space...

Come to me, O ye children!
    For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
    Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
    That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
    And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
    In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
    And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
    If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
    Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
    With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
    Have been hardened into wood,--

That to the world are childre...