There is one that has a head without an eye There’s snow on the fields The rose that blushes rosy red The rose with such a bonny blush The summer nights are short The wind has such a rainy sound Three little children Three plum buns Twist me a crown of wind-flowers Under the ivy bush Wee wee husband What are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow What does the bee do? What does the donkey bray about? What do the stars do? What is pink? a rose is pink What will you give me for my pound? When a mounting skylark sings When fishes set umbrellas up When the cows come home the milk is coming Where innocent bright-eyes daisies are Who has seen the wind? Why did baby die Wrens and robins in the hedge Your brother has a falcon Angels at the foot, And Angels at the head, And like a curly little lamb My pretty babe in bed. Love me,—I love you, Love me, my baby; Sing it high, sing it low, Sing it as may be. Mother’s arms under you, Her eyes above you; Sing it high, sing it low, Love me,—I love you. My baby has a father and a mother, Rich little baby! Fatherless, motherless, I know another Forlorn as may be: Poor little baby! Our little baby fell asleep, And may not wake again For days and days, and weeks and weeks But then he’ll wake again, And come with his own pretty look, And kiss Mamma again. “Kookoorookoo! kookoorookoo!” Crows the cock before the morn “Kikirikee! kikirikee!” Roses in the east are born. “Kookoorookoo! kookoorookoo!” Early birds begin their singing; “Kikirikee! kikirikee!” The day, the day, the day is springing. Baby cry— Oh fie!— At the physic in the cup: Gulp it twice And gulp it thrice, Baby gulp it up. Eight o’clock; The postman’s knock! Five letters for Papa; One for Lou, And none for you, And three for dear Mamma. Bread and milk for breakfast, And woollen frocks to wear, And a crumb for robin redbreast On the cold days of the year. There’s snow on the fields, And cold in the cottage, While I sit in the chimney nook Supping hot pottage. My clothes are soft and warm, Fold upon fold, But I’m so sorry for the poor Out in the cold. Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush, Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush,— Weave him a coffin of rush, Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow, Raise him a tombstone of snow. I dug and dug amongst the snow, And thought the flowers would never grow; I dug and dug amongst the sand, And still no green thing came to hand. Melt, O snow! the warm winds blow To thaw the flowers and melt the snow But all the winds from every land Will rear no blossom from the sand. A city plum is not a plum; A dumb-bell is no bell, though dumb A party rat is not a rat; A sailor’s cat is not a cat; A soldier’s frog is not a frog; A captain’s log is not a log. Your brother has a falcon, Your sister has a flower; But what is left for mannikin, Born within an hour? I’ll nurse you on my knee, my knee, My own little son; I’ll rock you, rock you, in my arms, My least little one.