An' when he's killed him dead, w'y, nen _The old Snake's drownded dead again_! Nen Bear set in the boat an' bowed His back an' rowed--an' rowed--an' rowed-- Till he's safe home--so tired he can't Do nothin' but lay there an' pant An' tell his childern, "Bresh my coat!" An' tell his wife, "Go chain my boat!" An' they're so glad he's back, they say "They _knowed_ he's comin' thataway To ist surprise the dear ones there!" An' Jim an' Jo they dried his hair [Illustration] An' pulled the burrs out; an' their ma She ist set there an' helt his paw Till he wuz sound asleep, an' nen She tell' him she won't scold again-- Never--never--never-- Ferever an' ferever! * * * * * [Illustration: SOME SONGS AFTER MASTER SINGERS] SOME SONGS AFTER MASTER SINGERS I SONG [W.S.] With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho rhyme! O the shepherd lad He is ne'er so glad As when he pipes, in the blossom-time, So rare! While Kate picks by, yet looks not there. So rare! so rare! _With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!_ _The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!_ With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow! Then he sips her face At the sweetest place-- And ho! how white is the hawthorn now!-- So rare!-- And the daisied world rocks round them there. So rare! so rare! _With a hey! and a hi! and a ho!_ _The grasses curdle where the daisies blow!_ * * * * * [Illustration: "WHILE KATE PICKS BY, YET LOOKS NOT THERE."] * * * * * II TO THE CHILD JULIA [R.H.] Little Julia, since that we May not as our elders be, Let us blithely fill the days Of our youth with pleasant plays. First we'll up at earliest dawn, While as yet the dew is on The sooth'd grasses and the pied Blossomings of morningtide; Next, with rinsed cheeks that shine As the enamell'd eglantine, We will break our fast on bread With both cream and honey spread; Then, with many a challenge-call, We will romp from house and hall, Gypsying with the birds and bees Of the green-tress'd garden trees. In a bower of leaf and vine Thou shalt be a lady fine Held in duress by the great Giant I shall personate. Next, when many mimics more Like to these we have played o'er, [Illustration] We'll betake us home-along Hand in hand at evensong. [Illustration] * * * * * III THE DOLLY'S MOTHER [W.W.] A little maid, of summers four-- Did you compute her years,-- And yet how infinitely more To me her age appears: I mark the sweet child's serious air, At her unplayful play,-- The tiny doll she mothers there And lulls to sleep away, Grows--'neath the grave similitude-- An infant real, to me, And _she_ a saint of motherhood In hale maturity. [Illustration]