Eye winker, Tom Tinker, Nose dropper. Mouth eater, Chinchopper, Chinchopper. Of more intrinsic interest than this ubiquitous old nurse's nonsense are the Sicilian cradle songs, in some of which there may also be traced a family likeness with the corresponding songs of other nations. As soon as the little Sicilian gets up in the morning he is made to say-- While I lay in my bed five saints stood by; Three at the head, two at the foot--in the midst was Jesus Christ. The Greek-speaking peasants of Terra d'Otranto have a song somewhat after the same plan: I lay me down to sleep in my little bed; I lay me down to sleep with my Mamma Mary: the Mamma Mary goes hence and leaves me Christ to keep me company. Very tender is the four-line Sicilian hushaby, in which the proud mother says-- How beautiful my son is in his swaddling clothes; just think what he will be when he is big! Sleep, my babe, for the angel passes: he takes from thee heaviness, and he leaves thee slumber. There is in Vigo's collection a lullaby so exquisite in its blended echoes from the cradle and the grave that it makes one wish for two great masters in the pathos of childish things, such as Blake and Schumann, to translate and set it to music. It is called "The Widow." Sweet, my child, in slumber lie, Father's dead, is dead and gone. Sleep then, sleep, my little son, Sleep, my son, and lullaby. Thou for kisses dost not cry, Which thy cheeks he heaped upon. Sleep then, sleep, my pretty one, Sleep, my child, and lullaby. We are lonely, thou and I, And with grief and fear I faint. Sleep then, sleep, my little saint, Sleep, my child, and lullaby. Why dost weep? No father nigh. Ah, my God! tears break his rest. Darling, nestle to my breast, Sleep, my child, and lullaby. Very scant information is to be had regarding the Sicilian folk-poets of the past; with one exception their names and personalities have almost wholly slipped out of the memory of the people, and that exception is full three parts a myth. If you ask a Sicilian popolano who was the chief and master of all rustic poets, he will promptly answer, "Pietro Fullone;" and he will tell you a string of stories about the poetic quarry-workman, dissolute in youth, devout in old age, whose fame was as great as his fortune was small, and who addressed a troop of admiring strangers who had travelled to Palermo to visit him, and were surprised to find him in rags, in the following dignified strain: Beneath these pilgrim weeds so coarse and worn A heart may still be found of priceless worth. The rose is ever coupled to the thorn. The spotless lily springs from blackest earth. Rubies and precious stones are only born Amidst the rugged rocks, uncouth and swarth. Then wonder not though till the end I wear Nought but this pilgrim raiment poor and bare.