Most of him rags, and all of him lean, And the belt round his belly drawn tightsome in He lifted his peaked old grizzled head, And these were the very same words he said- A Fol-rol-dol-rol-di-do. THE PICTURE Here is a sea-legged sailor, Come to this tottering Inn, Just when the bronze on its signboard is fading, And the black shades of evening begin. With his head on thick paws sleeps a sheep-dog, There stoops the Shepherd, and see, All follow-my-leader the ducks waddle homeward, Under the sycamore tree. Very brown is the face of the Sailor, His bundle is crimson, and green Are the thick leafy boughs that hang dense o'er the Tavern, And blue the far meadows between. But the Crust, Ale and Cheese of the Sailor, His Mug and his platter of Delf, And the crescent to light home the Shepherd and Sheep-dog The painter has kept to himself. THE LITTLE OLD CUPID 'Twas a very small garden; The paths were of stone, Scattered with leaves, With moss overgrown; And a little old Cupid Stood under a tree, With a small broken bow He stood aiming at me. The dog-rose in briars Hung over the weeds, The air was aflock With the floating of seed, And a little old Cupid Stood under a tree, With a small broken bow He stood aiming at me. The dovecote was tumbling, The fountain dry, A wind in the orchard Went whispering by; And a little old Cupid Stood under a tree, With a small broken bow He stood aiming at me. KING DAVID King David was a sorrowful man: No cause for his sorrow had he; And he called for the music of a hundred harps, To ease his melancholy. They played till they all fell silent: Played-and play sweet did they; But the sorrow that haunted the heart of King David They could not charm away. He rose; and in his garden Walked by the moon alone, A nightingale hidden in a cypress-tree Jargoned on and on. King David lifted his sad eyes Into the dark-boughed tree- ''Tell me, thou little bird that singest, Who taught my grief to thee?' But the bird in no wise heeded And the king in the cool of the moon Hearkened to the nightingale's sorrowfulness, Till all his own was gone. THE OLD HOUSE A very, very old house I know- And ever so many people go, Past the small lodge, forlorn and still, Under the heavy branches, till Comes the blank wall, and there's the door. Go in they do; come out no more. No voice says aught; no spark of light Across that threshold cheers the sight; Only the evening star on high Less lonely makes a lonely sky, As, one by one, the people go Into that very old house I know. BEASTS UNSTOOPING