If I were Lord of Tartary, Myself and me alone, My bed should be of ivory, Of beaten gold my throne; And in my court would peacocks flaunt, And in my forests tigers haunt, And in my pools great fishes slant Their fins athwart the sun. If I were Lord of Tartary, Trumpeters every day To every meal should summon me, And in my courtyard bray; And in the evening lamps would shine, Yellow as honey, red as wine, While harp, and flute, and mandoline, Made music sweet and gay. If I were Lord of Tartary, I'd wear a robe of beads, White, and gold, and green they'd be-- And clustered thick as seeds; And ere should wane the morning-star, I'd don my robe and scimitar, And zebras seven should draw my car Through Tartary's dark glades. Lord of the fruits of Tartary, Her rivers silver-pale! Lord of the hills of Tartary, Glen, thicket, wood, and dale! Her flashing stars, her scented breeze, Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas, Her bird-delighting citron-trees In every purple vale! THE BUCKLE I had a silver buckle, I sewed it on my shoe, And 'neath a sprig of mistletoe I danced the evening through. I had a bunch of cowslips, I hid them in a grot, In case the elves should come by night And me remember not. I had a yellow riband, I tied it in my hair, That, walking in the garden, The birds might see it there. I had a secret laughter, I laughed it near the wall: Only the ivy and the wind May tell of it at all. THE HARE In the black furrow of a field I saw an old witch-hare this night; And she cocked a lissome ear, And she eyed the moon so bright, And she nibbled of the green; And I whispered "Wh-s-st! witch-hare," Away like a ghostie o'er the field She fled, and left the moonlight there. BUNCHES OF GRAPES "Bunches of grapes," says Timothy; "Pomegranates pink," says Elaine; "A junket of cream and a cranberry tart For me," says Jane. "Love-in-a-mist," says Timothy; "Primroses pale," says Elaine; "A nosegay of pinks and mignonette For me," says Jane. "Chariots of gold," says Timothy; "Silvery wings," says Elaine; "A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay For me," says Jane. JOHN MOULDY I spied John Mouldy in his cellar, Deep down twenty steps of stone; In the dusk he sat a-smiling, Smiling there alone. He read no book, he snuffed no candle; The rats ran in, the rats ran out; And far and near, the drip of water Went whispering about. The dusk was still, with dew a-falling, I saw the Dog Star bleak and grim, I saw a slim brown rat of Norway Creep over him. I spied John Mouldy in his cellar, Deep down twenty steps of stone; In the dusk he sat a-smiling, Smiling there alone. THE FLY How large unto the tiny fly Must little things appear!-- A rosebud like a feather bed, Its prickle like a spear; A dewdrop like a looking-glass, A hair like golden wire; The smallest grain of mustard-seed As fierce as coals of fire;