Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce Fayries will come to daunce,-- Balow, my boy! Oft hath thy moder seene Moonlight and mirkland queene Daunce on thy slumbering een,-- Balow, my boy! Then droned a bomblebee Saftly this songe to thee: “Balow, my boy!” And a wee heather bell, Pluckt from a fayry dell, Chimed thee this rune hersell: “Balow, my boy!” Soe, bonnie, dinna greit; Moder doth rock her sweete,-- Balow, my boy! Give mee thy lyttel hand, Moder will hold it and Lead thee to balow land,-- Balow, my boy! THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN The Hawthorne children--seven in all-- Are famous friends of mine, And with what pleasure I recall How, years ago, one gloomy fall, I took a tedious railway line And journeyed by slow stages down Unto that sleepy seaport town (Albeit one worth seeing), Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, And Beatrix and Gwendolen And she that was the baby then-- These famous seven, as aforesaid, Lived, moved, and had their being. The Hawthorne children gave me such A welcome by the sea, That the eight of us were soon in touch, And though their mother marveled much, Happy as larks were we! Egad I was a boy again With Henry, John, and Gwendolen! And, oh! the funny capers I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! The pranks we heedless children played, The deafening, awful noise we made-- ’Twould shock my family, if they read About it in the papers! The Hawthorne children all were smart; The girls, as I recall, Had comprehended every art Appealing to the head and heart, The boys were gifted, all; ’Twas Hildegarde who showed me how To hitch the horse and milk a cow And cook the best of suppers; With Beatrix upon the sands I sprinted daily, and was beat, While Henry stumped me to the feat Of walking round upon my hands Instead of on my “uppers.” The Hawthorne children liked me best Of evenings, after tea; For then, by general request, I spun them yarns about the west-- And _all_ involving Me! I represented how I’d slain The bison on the gore-smeared plain, And divers tales of wonder I told of how I’d fought and bled In Injun scrimmages galore, Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth “No more!” And packed her darlings off to bed To dream of blood and thunder!