I Sing of a Maiden
I syng of a mayden
That is mak{.e}les;
Kyng of all{.e} kyng{.e}s
To here Son{.e} sche ches.
He cam also stylle
There his moder was
As dew in Aprylle
That fallyt on the gras;
He cam also stylle
To his moderes bowr
As dew in Aprille
That fallyt on the flour;
He cam also stylle
There his moder lay
As dew in Aprille
That fallyt on the spray;
Moder and maydyn
Was never non but sche;
Wel may swych a lady
God{.e}s moder be.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Related quotes
I Sing Of A Maiden
I syng of a mayden
That is mak{.e}les;
Kyng of all{.e} kyng{.e}s
To here Son{.e} sche ches.
He cam also stylle
There his moder was
As dew in Aprylle
That fallyt on the gras;
He cam also stylle
To his moderes bowr
As dew in Aprille
That fallyt on the flour;
He cam also stylle
There his moder lay
As dew in Aprille
That fallyt on the spray;
Moder and maydyn
Was never non but sche;
Wel may swych a lady
God{.e}s moder be.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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A Paraphrase, By Chaucer
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken;
Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding
Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding.
Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder
For to beare swete company with some oder;
Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth,
But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth;
Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes
That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys;
But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye
When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.
poem by Eugene Field
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A Chaucerian Paraphrase of Horace
Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken,
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken;
Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding
Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding;
Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder
For to beare swete company with some oder;
Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth,
But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth;
Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes
That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys;
But all that do with gode men wed full quickylye
When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.
poem by Eugene Field
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Old English Lullaby
Hush, bonnie, dinna greit;
Moder will rocke her sweete,-
Balow, my boy!
When that his toile ben done,
Daddie will come anone,-
Hush thee, my lyttel one;
Balow, my boy!
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!
poem by Eugene Field
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Paa Grevindens Fødselsdag
Der er et Sted paa en af Danmarks Øer,
Et deiligt Sted, ret som en engelsk Park,
Rundt om sees store Skove, stille Søer,
Med Enge vexle Korn- og Kløver-Mark;
Og dog er her det Hele kun en Ramme
Omkring et Hjem, det elskte Bregentved,
Dets Arne har en høi, en hellig Flamme,
Et Moder-Hjerte fuldt af Kjærlighed.
Læs hendes Øie naar den Arme græder,
Der skeer i Verden Godt som Faa kun see,
Læs hendes Øie, der boer Moder-Glæder,
Hver tør betroe til hende af sin Vee!
Naturen her er smuk og rig at skue,
Men hendes Hjerte, det er rigt som den,
Fra det mod Gud sig hvælver Arkens Bue,
Der er Fortrøstning i at see derhen.
Hvert Aar, o Moder, Marken Rigdom sender
Til ham, hvis Hjerte Gud til dit har bragt,
En Rigdom større selv, end Du den kjender,
For ham i Børnene Du har nedlagt,
En himmelsk Sæd af Moder-Taarer dugget,
En Qvinde virker stille, men saa stort!
Gud, som har Verdner ved sit Hjerte vugget,
Dig glæde for det Gode, Du har gjort!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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En Glædes-Fest i Dag vi har
En Glædes-Fest i Dag vi har,
Og jublende vi komme,
Thi Sløret brast for Øiets Glar,
Den mørke Nat er omme,
See Skoven dog hvor deilig grøn,
Og Hjort og Hind derinde;
Du seer din Fest, saa lys og skjøn,
Vor Moder, vor Veninde.
Igjennem Rummet, denne Dag
Gaaer Hjerte-Melodien,
Du hører Sønners Hjerte-Slag
Fra Themsen og fra Slien,
De er Dig nær og Du det veed,
De juble med herinde,
Gud signe Dig, vor Kjærlighed,
Vor Moder, vor Veninde!
Alt hilser Dig med Lysets Glands,
Det Dybe og det Høie,
Den grønne Mark og Stjerners Krands,
Og Glæden i vort Øie;
Snart Kampens Sky fra Danmark gaaer,
I Fred skal Dagen rinde,
Da dobbelt lys Dig Verden staaer,
Vor Moder, vor Veninde!
I Landet Fred, paa Havet Fred,
Fred i hvert sorgfuldt Hjerte!
Hvor ærlig Villie holder ved,
Gaaer Glæde frem af Smerte.
I Taalmod, og det milde Sind,
Du saae din Nat forsvinde!
Guds Solskin i dit Hjerte ind,
Vor Moder, vor Veninde!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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The Lyttel Boy
Sometime there ben a lyttel boy
That wolde not renne and play,
And helpless like that little tyke
Ben allwais in the way.
"Goe, make you merrie with the rest,"
His weary moder cried;
But with a frown he catcht her gown
And hong untill her side.
That boy did love his moder well,
Which spake him faire, I ween;
He loved to stand and hold her hand
And ken her with his een;
His cosset bleated in the croft,
His toys unheeded lay,--
He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe,
Ben allwais in the way.
Godde loveth children and doth gird
His throne with soche as these,
And He doth smile in plaisaunce while
They cluster at His knees;
And sometime, when He looked on earth
And watched the bairns at play,
He kenned with joy a lyttel boy
Ben allwais in the way.
And then a moder felt her heart
How that it ben to-torne,--
She kissed eche day till she ben gray
The shoon he used to worn;
No bairn let hold untill her gown,
Nor played upon the floore,--
Godde's was the joy; a lyttel boy
Ben in the way no more!
poem by Eugene Field
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Moderen med Barnet
Hist, hvor Veien slaaer en Bugt,
Ligger der et Huus saa smukt.
Væggene lidt skjæve staae,
Ruderne er ganske smaa,
Døren synker halvt i Knæ,
Hunden gjøer, det lille Kræ,
Under Taget Svaler qvid're,
Solen synker — og saa vid're.
I den røde Aftensol
Sidder Moder i sin Stol;
Kinden luer dobbelt rød,
Barnet har hun paa sit Skjød.
Drengen er saa frisk og sund,
Æblekinden rød og rund!
See, hvor hun i Spøg ham banker
Paa de søde Pusselanker.
Katten staaer og krummer Ryg,
Men forstyrres af en Myg;
Barsk han den med Poten slaaer,
Og igjen som Hofmand staaer.
Moder klapper Barnets Kind;
See hvor sødt det sover ind,
Drømmer om de Engle smukke
I sin lille pene Vugge.
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Lille Viggo
Lille Viggo, vil Du ride Ranke?
Sæt Dig paa mit Knæ, Du søde Dreng!
Jeg hos Dig er Barn i Sjæl og Tanke;
Vi vil lege, til Du skal i Seng.
Her hos Dig jeg Barnehimlen finder,
Glemmer Alt, hvad der gjør Hjertet Vee;
Lad mig kysse dine røde Kinder,
Lad mig dog de brune Øie see!
Viis mig saa, hvor stor Du er, Du Søde!
Nei, hvor Haanden dog er buttet rund!
Smilet sidder i de Kinder røde,
Altfor smuk er dog din lille Mund!
Hver en Blomst Du kysser, som en Broder,
Taler med den, paa din egen Viis,
Hele Verden har Du i din Moder,
Hendes Skjød er Dig dit Paradiis.
Ingen seer paa Dig med mørke Blikke,
Du er Barn, Dig er man ikke vred;
Verdens vilde Strid forstaaer Du ikke,
Kjærlighed kun kjender Kjærlighed.
Jeg en smuk Historie Dig lover,
Følg nu Moder til din lille Seng!
Synge vil jeg for Dig, til Du sover,
Lille Viggo, Moders bedste Dreng!
Du maaske for mig, som ældre, synger,
Naar jeg skal til Ro den sidste Gang;
Ja, naar Jorden paa min Kiste tynger,
Syng da med den dybe Vuggesang!
Tænk paa ham, der trofast mange Gange
Gynged' Dig paa Armen op og ned.
Verden glemmer mig og mine Sange!
Mon Du glemme vil min Kjærlighed?
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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In Imitation of Chaucer
Women ben full of Ragerie,
Yet swinken not sans secresie.
Thilke Moral shall ye understond,
From Schoole-boy's Tale of fayre Irelond:
Which to the Fennes hath him betake,
To filch the gray Ducke fro the Lake.
Right then, there passen by the Way
His Aunt, and eke her Daughters tway.
Ducke in his Trowses hath he hent,
Not to be spied of Ladies gent.
'But ho! our Nephew,' (crieth one)
'Ho!' quoth another, 'Cozen John;'
And stoppen, and lough, and callen out, -
This sely Clerk full low doth lout:
They asken that, and talken this,
'Lo here is Coz, and here is Miss.'
But, as he glozeth with Speeches soote,
The Ducke sore tickleth his Erse-roote:
Fore-piece and buttons all-to-brest,
Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest.
'Te-he,' cry'd Ladies; Clerke nought spake:
Miss star'd; and gray Ducke crieth Quake.
'O Moder, Moder,' (quoth the daughter)
'Be thilke same thing Maids longer a'ter?
'Bette is to pyne on coals and chalke,
'Then trust on Mon, whose yerde can talke.'
poem by Alexander Pope
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A Hymn to the Virgin
Of on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee
Maria.
Al this world was for-lore
Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice.
With
ave
it went away
Thuster nyth and cometh the day
Salutis;
The welle springeth ut of the
Virtutis.
Levedy, flour of alle thing,
Rosa sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
Gratia divina:
Of all thu berst the pris,
Levedy, quee of paradys
Electa:
Mayde milde, Moder
es
Effecta.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Jeg troer, at der før en Verden var
Jeg troer, at der før en Verden var;
I den vi hinanden kjendte:
Erindringen Drømme til mig bar;
En Alter-Flamme de tændte;
Jeg saae Dig, hørte din Stemmes Klang,
Det var, som elsked jeg Dig engang.
Ja mere end Fader og Moder her
Du fyldte hele min Tanke;
Og nu, nu staaer Du mig levende nær,
Dit Hjerte som mit kan banke.
Jeg føler, at Ingen forstaaer mig som Du;
Jeg elsked Dig før, og jeg elsker Dig nu.
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Inscription In St Cross Near Winchester, To John Newles, On A Brass Near The West Entrance Of The Church
The yere of our Lord m. ccc. l. and two:
Vpon the xi day in the moneth of Febever:
The soul of Jon Newles, the body passid fro:
A brother of this place restyng undir yis stone here:
Born in beame squyer and suant more yan xxx yere:
Unto Harry Beauford bushhop and cardinal:
Whos soules God convey and His Moder dere:
Vnto the blisse of Heven that is eternall. Amen:
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Habitants Jubilee Ode
I read on de paper mos' ev'ry day, all about Jubilee
An' grande procession movin' along, an' passin' across de sea,
Dat's chil'ren of Queen Victoriaw comin' from far away
For tole Madame w'at dey t'ink of her, an' wishin' her bonne santé.
An' if any wan want to know pourquoi les Canayens should be dere
Wit' res' of de worl' for shout 'Hooraw' an' t'row hees cap on de air,
Purty quick I will tole heem de reason, w'y we feel lak de oder do,
For if I'm only poor habitant, I'm not on de sapré fou.
Of course w'en we t'ink it de firs' go off, I know very strange it seem
For fader of us dey was offen die for flag of L'Ancien Regime,
From day w'en de voyageurs come out all de way from ole St. Malo,
Flyin' dat flag from de mas' above, an' long affer dat also.
De English fight wit' de Frenchman den over de whole contree,
Down by de reever, off on de wood, an' out on de beeg, beeg sea,
Killin', an' shootin', an' raisin' row, half tam dey don't know w'at for,
W'en it's jus' as easy get settle down, not makin' de crazy war.
Sometam' dey be quiet for leetle w'ile, you t'ink dey don't fight no more,
An' den w'en dey're feelin' all right agen, Bang! jus' lak' she was before.
Very offen we're beatin' dem on de fight, sometam' dey can beat us, too,
But no feller's scare on de 'noder man, an' bote got enough to do.
An' all de long year she be go lak' dat, we never was know de peace,
Not'ing but war from de wes' contree down to de St. Maurice;
Till de las' fight's comin' on Canadaw, an' brave Generale Montcalm
Die lak' a sojer of France is die, on Battle of Abraham.
Dat's finish it all, an' de English King is axin' us stayin' dere
W'ere we have sam' right as de 'noder peep comin' from Angleterre.
Long tam' for our moder so far away de poor Canayens is cry,
But de new step-moder she's good an' kin', an' it's all right bimeby.
If de moder come dead w'en you're small garçon leavin' you dere alone,
Wit' nobody watchin' for fear you fall, an hurt youse'f on de stone,
An' 'noder good woman she tak' your han' de sam' your own moder do,
Is it right you don't call her moder, is it right you don't love her too?
Bâ non, an' dat was de way we feel, w'en de ole Regime's no more,
An' de new wan come, but don't change moche, w'y it's jus' lak' it be before.
Spikin' Français lak' we alway do, an' de English dey mak no fuss,
An' our law de sam', wall, I don't know me, 'twas better mebbe for us.
So de sam' as two broder we settle down, leevin' dere han' in han',
Knowin' each oder, we lak' each oder, de French an' de Englishman,
For it's curi's t'ing on dis worl', I'm sure you see it agen an' agen,
Dat offen de mos' worse ennemi, he's comin' de bes', bes' frien'.
So we're kipin' so quiet long affer dat, w'en las' of de fightin's done,
Dat plaintee is say, de new Canayens forget how to shoot de gun;
But Yankee man's smart, all de worl' know dat, so he's firs' fin' mistak'
wan day
W'en he's try cross de line, fusil on hee's han', near place dey call
Chateaugay.
Of course it's bad t'ing for poor Yankee man, De Salaberry be dere
Wit' habitant farmer from down below, an' two honder Voltigeurs,
Dem feller come off de State, I s'pose, was fightin' so hard dey can
But de blue coat sojer he don't get kill, is de locky Yankee man!
Since den w'en dey're comin on Canadaw, we alway be treat dem well,
For dey're spennin' de monee lak' gentil-hommes, an' stay on de bes' hotel,
Den 'Bienvenu,' we will spik dem, an' 'Come back agen nex' week,
So long you was kip on de quiet an' don't talk de politique!'
Yass, dat is de way Victoriaw fin' us dis jubilee,
Sometam' we mak' fuss about not'ing, but it's all on de familee,
An' w'enever dere's danger roun' her, no matter on sea or lan',
She'll find that les Canayens can fight de sam' as bes' Englishman.
An' onder de flag of Angleterre, so long as dat flag was fly--
Wit' deir English broder, les Canayens is satisfy leev an' die.
Dat's de message our fader geev us w'en dey're fallin' on Chateaugay,
An' de flag was kipin' dem safe den, dat's de wan we will kip alway!
poem by William Henry Drummond
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A Hymn to the Virgin
OF on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee
Maria.
Al this world was for-lore
Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice.
With ave it went away
Thuster nyth and comz the day
Salutis;
The welle springeth ut of the,
Virtutis.
Levedy, flour of alle thing,
Rose sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
Gratia divina:
Of alle thu ber'st the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys
Electa:
Mayde milde, moder es
Effecta.
Oberst Læssøe
Paa Valpladsen faldt Du for Danmarks Sag,
Der brast Dit ildfulde Hjerte.
Din Aand var klar som den lyse Dag,
Med „fremad!" den steg i det blodige Slag,
Saae Danskens Seier og — Smerte.
Græd stakkels Moder, nedbøiet tungt.
„Hans Liv var saa ungt!" — men evig ungt
Staaer ogsaa hans Eftermæle!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Gertrude's Prayer
That which is marred at birth Time shall not mend,
Nor water out of bitter well make clean;
All evil thing returneth at the end,
Or elseway walketh in our blood unseen.
Whereby the more is sorrow in certaine--
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe.
To-bruized be that slender, sterting spray
Out of the oake's rind that should betide
A branch of girt and goodliness, straightway
Her spring is turned on herself, and wried
And knotted like some gall or veiney wen.--
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe.
Noontide repayeth never morning-bliss--
Sith noon to morn is incomparable;
And, so it be our dawning goth amiss,
None other after--hour serveth well.
Ah! Jesu-Moder, pitie my oe paine--
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Tyveknægten
I Vuggen ligger det spæde Noer,
Det sover saa trygt og stille;
Moderen læser et Fader Vor,
En Engel hun seer i den Lille.
Ømt hun kysser hans runde Kind
Og glemmer hver jordisk Smerte,
Drømmer saa sødt i Fremtid ind;
Saa drømmer hver Moder-Hjerte.
Men Ravnen kommer med al sin Slægt,
Og synger bag Ruden sin Vise:
„Din Engel bliver en Tyveknægt,
Og vi skal Engelen spise!"
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Marie Louise
Dis was de story of boy an' girl
Dat 's love each oder above de worl'
But it 's not easy job for mak' l'amour
W'en de girl she 's riche an' de boy he 's poor
All de sam' he don't worry an' she don't cry,
But wait for good chances come bimedy.
Young Marie Louise Hurtubuise
Was leev wit' her meder la veuve Denise
On fines' house on de w'ole chemin
From Caribou reever to St. Germain
For ole woamn 's boss on de grande moulin.
W'ere dere 's nice beeg dam, water all de tam
An'season t'roo runnin' jus' de sam'
Wit' good leetle creek comin' off de hill
Was helpin' de reever for work de mill
So de grande moulin she is never still.
No wonder Denise she was hard to please
W'en de boy come sparkin' Marie Louise
For affer de foreman Bazile is pay
De mill she 's bringin' t'ree dollar a day
An' for makin' de monee, dat 's easy way.
An' de girl Marie, O! she's tres jolie,
Jompin' aroun lak de summer bee
She 's never short plaintee t'ing to do
An' mebbe she ketch leetle honey too,
'Cos she 's jus' as sweet as de morning dew.
An' w'en she was dress on her Sunday bes'
An' walk wit' her moder on seconde mess
Dere 's not'ing is bring de young man so fas'
An' dey stan' on door of church en masse
So res' of de peop' dey can hardly pass.
An' she know musique, 'cos on Chris'mas week
W'en organ man on de church is sick
(S'pose he got de grippe) dat girl she play
Lak college professor, de pries' is say
Till de place it was crowd nearly ev'ry day.
Ole le Curé Belair of St. Pollinaire,
Dat 's parish ten mile noder side riviere,
If he 's not gettin' mad, it was funny t'ing
W'en hees young man fly lak bird on de wing
Wit' nobody lef' behin' to sing.
An' nex' t'ing dey know it 's comin' so
Dat mos' of de girl she got no beau,
An' of course dat's makin' de jealousie
For w'en de young feller he see Marie
He see not'ing else on hees eye, sapree!
Mus' be somet'ing done sure as de gun,
It's all very well for de boy have fun
But dere 's noder t'ing too, must n't be forget,
Dere 's two fine parish dat 's all upset
An' mebbe de troub' is n't over yet.
So ev'ry wan say de only way
Is gettin' young Marie Louise mariée,
Den dey have beeg meetin' on magasin,
W'ere he sit on de chair Aleck Sanschagrin,
An' dey 'point heem for go on de grande
moulin.
But w'en Aleck come dere for arrange affaire,
Ole Madame Denise she was mak' heem scare
For jus' on de minute she see hees face
She know right away all about de case
An' she tole Bazile t'row heem off de place.
Now de young Bazile he was t'ink good deal
Of Marie Louise an' he 's ready for keel
Any feller come foolin' aroun' de door
So he kick dat man till he 's feelin' sore,
An' Aleck he never got back no more.
If it 's true w'at dey say, Joe Boulanger
Was crazy to fight Irish man wan day
W'en he steal all de pork on hees dinner can,
Den it is n't so very hard onderstan'
Bazile Latour mus' be darn smart man.
For nobody know de poor feller Joe
W'en he 's come from de grande moulin below
'Cept hees moder, dat's tole heem mak' prom-
ise sure
Kip off on de mill, an' Bazile Latour,
(But it 's long before doctor can mak' heem
cure).
Den de ole Denise she was very please,
An' nex' day spik wit' Marie Louise,
'Ma girl, I got de right man for you
If you can only jus' love heem true,
Bazile dat young feller, I t'ink he 'll do.'
'Wall! Moder he 's poor, Bazile Latour,
But if you t'ink you will lak heem sure
I 'll try an' feex it mese'f some day
For you 've been de good moder wit' me
alway'
An' dat 's w'at Marie Louise she say.
So it 's comin' right affer all de fight,
An' de parish don't see de more finer sight
Dan w'en dey get marry on St. Germain
W'y de buggy she 's pilin' de w'ole chemin
All de way from de church to de grande moulin.
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Little Mouse
Get along leetle mouse, kick de snow up
behin' you
For it's fine winter road we 're travelto-
night
Wit' de moon an' de star shinin' up on de sky
dere
W'y it 's almos' de sam' as de broad day
light.
De bell roun' your body it 's quick tune dey 're
playin'
But your foot 's kippin' tam jus' as steady
can be,
Ah! you dance youse'f crazy if only I let you,
Ma own leetle pony- petite souris.
You 'member w'en firse we be tryin' for broke
you
An' Joe Sauvageau bet hees two dollar bill
He can drive you alone by de bridge on de
reever
An' down near de place w'ere dey got de
beeg mill.
An' it 's new cariole too, is come from St.
Felix
Jo-seph 's only buyin' it week before,
An' w'en he is passin' de road wit' hees trotter
Ev'ry body was stan' on de outside door.
An' dere he sit, sam' he don 't care about
not'ing
Hees foot on de dashboar', hees han' on de
line
Ev'ry dog on de place is come out for barkin'
An' all de young boy he was runnin' behin' .
Wall! sir, Joe's put on style leetle soon for
hees pleasure
For w'en de mill w'issle, you jomp lak de
cat
An' nex' t'ing poor Joe is commencin' get
busy,
Non! I never see fine run-away lak dat.
'Way go de pony den- 'way go de cariole,
Poor Joe say , 'good-bye' on de foot of de
hill
An' all he can see of de sleigh de nex' morning
Is jus' about pay for hees two dollar bill.
Ah! your right nam' jus' den should be leetle
devil
An' not leetle mouse, de sam' you have now.
Wall! dat 's long ago, an' you 're gettin' more
quiet
Since tam you was never done kickin' de
row.
But I 'm not very sorry de firse day I see you
Settle down on de trot lak your fader he get
W'en he beat Sorel Boy on de ice at T'ree
Reever
Bes' two on t'ree heat, an' win all de bet.
Your moder she 's come off de Lachapelle stock
too
Ole Canayen blood from Berthier en haut
De bes' kin' of horse never look on de halter
So it is n't moche wonder you know how to
go.
Dat's church bell we 're hearin' off dere on de
hillside
Get along leetle mouse, for we must n't be
late,
Fin' your way t'roo de res' of dem crowdin' de
roadside
You 'll never get better chance showin' your
gait.
Wall! church is all over, an' Josephine 's comin'
For drive wit' us home on her gran' moder 's
house
So tak' your own tam an' don 't be on de hurry
Your slowes' gait 's quick enough now, leetle
mouse.
poem by William Henry Drummond
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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