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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Related quotes
Balow
BALOW, my babe, lie still and sleep!
It grieves me sore to see thee weep.
Wouldst thou be quiet I'se be glad,
Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad:
Balow my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father breeds me great annoy—
Balow, la-low!
When he began to court my love,
And with his sugred words me move,
His faynings false and flattering cheer
To me that time did not appear:
But now I see most cruellye
He cares ne for my babe nor me—
Balow, la-low!
Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile,
And when thou wak'st thoo'le sweetly smile:
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay, God forbid!
But yet I fear thou wilt go near
Thy father's heart and face to bear—
Balow, la-low!
I cannot choose but ever will
Be loving to thy father still;
Where'er he go, where'er he ride,
My love with him doth still abide;
In weal or woe, where'er he go,
My heart shall ne'er depart him fro—
Balow, la-low!
But do not, do not, pretty mine,
To faynings false thy heart incline!
Be loyal to thy lover true,
And never change her for a new:
If good or fair, of her have care
For women's banning 's wondrous sare—
Balow, la-low!
Bairn, by thy face I will beware;
Like Sirens' words, I'll come not near;
My babe and I together will live;
He'll comfort me when cares do grieve.
My babe and I right soft will lie,
And ne'er respect man's crueltye—
Balow, la-low!
Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warn'd by me
Never to trust man's curtesye;
For if we do but chance to bow,
They'll use us then they care not how—
Balow, la-low!
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Balow
BALOW, my babe, lie still and sleep!
It grieves me sore to see thee weep.
Wouldst thou be quiet I'se be glad,
Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad:
Balow my boy, thy mother's joy,
Thy father breeds me great annoy--
Balow, la-low!
When he began to court my love,
And with his sugred words me move,
His faynings false and flattering cheer
To me that time did not appear:
But now I see most cruellye
He cares ne for my babe nor me--
Balow, la-low!
Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile,
And when thou wak'st thoo'le sweetly smile:
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay, God forbid!
But yet I fear thou wilt go near
Thy father's heart and face to bear--
Balow, la-low!
I cannot choose but ever will
Be loving to thy father still;
Where'er he go, where'er he ride,
My love with him doth still abide;
In weal or woe, where'er he go,
My heart shall ne'er depart him fro--
Balow, la-low!
But do not, do not, pretty mine,
To faynings false thy heart incline!
Be loyal to thy lover true,
And never change her for a new:
If good or fair, of her have care
For women's banning 's wondrous sare--
Balow, la-low!
Bairn, by thy face I will beware;
Like Sirens' words, I'll come not near;
My babe and I together will live;
He'll comfort me when cares do grieve.
My babe and I right soft will lie,
And ne'er respect man's crueltye--
Balow, la-low!
Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warn'd by me
Never to trust man's curtesye;
For if we do but chance to bow,
They'll use us then they care not how--
Balow, la-low!
Little croodlin doo
Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin doo?
Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin' on the lea?
Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me--
Got a lump o' sugar an' a posie for you,
Only bring back my wee, wee croodlin doo!
Why, here you are, my little croodlin doo!
Looked in er cradle, but didn't find you there,
Looked f'r my wee, wee croodlin doo ever'where;
Ben kind lonesome all er day withouten you;
Where you ben, my little wee, wee croodlin doo?
Now you go balow, my little croodlin doo;
Now you go rockaby ever so far,--
Rockaby, rockaby, up to the star
That's winkin' an' blinkin' an' singin' to you
As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin doo!
poem by Eugene Field
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The shut-eye train
Come, my little one, with me!
There are wondrous sights to see
As the evening shadows fall;
In your pretty cap and gown,
Don't detain
The Shut-Eye train -
"Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth,
"Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth,
And we hear the warning call:
"All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!"
Over hill and over plain
Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train!
Through the blue where bloom the stars
And the Mother Moon looks down
We'll away
To land of Fay -
Oh, the sights that we shall see there!
Come, my little one, with me there -
'T is a goodly train of cars -
All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!
Swifter than a wild bird's flight,
Through the realms of fleecy light
We shall speed and speed away!
Let the Night in envy frown -
What care we
How wroth she be!
To the Balow-land above us,
To the Balow-folk who love us,
Let us hasten while we may -
All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!
Shut-Eye Town is passing fair -
Golden dreams await us there;
We shall dream those dreams, my dear,
Till the Mother Moon goes down -
See unfold
Delights untold!
And in those mysterious places
We shall see beloved faces
And beloved voices hear
In the grace of Shut-Eye Town.
Heavy are your eyes, my sweet,
Weary are your little feet -
Nestle closer up to me
In your pretty cap and gown;
Don't detain
The Shut-Eye train!
"Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth,
"Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth
Oh, the sights that we shall see!
All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!
poem by Eugene Field
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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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A Song For Two Children
'Make a song, father, a new little song,
All for Jenny and Nancy.'
Balow lalow or Hey derry down,
Or else what might you fancy?
Is there any song sweet enough
For Nancy and for Jenny?
Said Simple Simon to the pieman,
'Indeed I know not any.'
'I've counted the miles to Babylon,
I've flown the earth like a bird,
I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
But no such song have I heard.'
'Some speak of Alexander,
And some of Hercules,
But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny,
Where are there any like these?'
poem by Robert Graves
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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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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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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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Bonnie Lesley
O SAW ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o'er the Border?
She 's gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o' men adore thee.
The Deil he couldna scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonnie face
And say, 'I canna wrang thee!'
The Powers aboon will tent thee,
Misfortune sha'na steer thee:
Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There 's nane again sae bonnie!
poem by Robert Burns
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Christmas Eve
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,--
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?
Deep lies the snow upon the earth,
But all the sky is ringing
With joyous song, and all night long
The stars shall dance, with singing.
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
And close thine eyes in dreaming,
And angels fair shall lead thee where
The singing stars are beaming.
A shepherd calls his little lambs,
And he longeth to caress them;
He bids them rest upon his breast,
That his tender love may bless them.
So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
Whilst evening shades are falling,
And above the song of the heavenly throng
Thou shalt hear the Master calling.
poem by Eugene Field
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Asthana
Darkness lingers, thy day fast approaches,
Mine tears they crack the grounds of heaven,
Death doth thee harbor any reproaches;
The sacred in shadows of thy haven?
In these times no one hath more faith than I
That thou canst change thy wicked ways
If only once thou look'd me in the eye-
Come, and I will lead thee out of this maze.
I know that thee hath not any friends,
I'll teach thee the art of how to trust,
Let me be the horizon thy sorrow ends,
The one to polish thy heart of rust.
Together lets hold the history pen,
And erase all thee hath caused, the pain.
poem by Isunge Mwangase
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Death Be Not Proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne
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Eternal Time, That Wastest Without Waste
Eternal Time, that wastest without waste,
That art and art not, diest, and livest still;
Most slow of all, and yet of greatest haste;
Both ill and good, and neither good nor ill:
How can I justly praise thee, or dispraise?
Dark are thy nights, but bright and clear thy days.
Both free and scarce, thou giv'st and tak'st again;
Thy womb that all doth breed, is tomb to all;
What so by thee hath life, by thee is slain;
From thee do all things rise, by thee they fall:
Constant, inconstant, moving, standing still;
Was, Is, Shall be, do thee both breed and kill.
I lose thee, while I seek to find thee out;
The farther off, the more I follow thee;
The faster hold, the greater cause of doubt;
Was, Is, I know; but Shall, I cannot see.
All things by thee are measur'd; thou, by none:
All are in thee; thou, in thyself alone.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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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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Here's To Thy Health
Tune - "Laggan Burn."
Here's to thy health, my bonie lass,
Gude nicht and joy be wi' thee;
I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door,
To tell thee that I lo'e thee.
O dinna think, my pretty pink,
But I can live without thee:
I vow and swear I dinna care,
How lang ye look about ye.
Thou'rt aye sae free informing me,
Thou hast nae mind to marry;
I'll be as free informing thee,
Nae time hae I to tarry:
I ken thy frien's try ilka means
Frae wedlock to delay thee;
Depending on some higher chance,
But fortune may betray thee.
I ken they scorn my low estate,
But that does never grieve me;
For I'm as free as any he;
Sma' siller will relieve me.
I'll count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae lang as I'll enjoy it;
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,
As lang's I get employment.
But far off fowls hae feathers fair,
And, aye until ye try them,
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care;
They may prove waur than I am.
But at twal' at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I'll come and see thee;
For the man that loves his mistress weel,
Nae travel makes him weary.
poem by Robert Burns
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Poor little Heart!
192
Poor little Heart!
Did they forget thee?
Then dinna care! Then dinna care!
Proud little Heart!
Did they forsake thee?
Be debonnaire! Be debonnaire!
Frail little Heart!
I would not break thee—
Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?
Gay little Heart—
Like Morning Glory!
Wind and Sun—wilt thee array!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Sonnet 19
Ah no; nor I my seife: though my pure love
(Sweete Ganymede) to thee hath still beene pure,
And even till my last gaspe shall aie endure,
Could ever thy obdurate beuty move:
Then cease oh Goddesse sonne (for sure thou art,
A Goddesse sonne that canst resist desire)
Cease thy hard heart, and entertaine loves fire,
Within thy sacred breast: by Natures art.
And as I love thee more then any Creature,
(Love thee, because thy beautie is divine:
Love thee, because my selfe, my soule is thine:
Wholie devoted to thy lovelie feature),
Even so of all the vowels, I and U,
Are dearest unto me, as doth ensue.
poem by Richard Barnfield
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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