Swing, Swong!

"Swing, Swong!

The days are long!

Up hill, and down dale;

Butter is made in every vale."

|Your day will come, though it arrive but

slowly;

There 's cream in all life, set however

lowly;

And if, as Goose philosophy, you doubt

it,

Hear what the little hen found out about

it:--

"Kroo! kroo! I've cramp in my legs,

Sitting so long atop of my eggs;

Never a minute for rest to snatch;

I wonder when they are going to hatch!

Cluck! cluck! listen! sleep!

Down in the nest there's a stir and a

peep.

Everything comes to its luck some day;

I've got chickens! What will folks say?"

SHUTTLECOCK.

"Here we go up, up, up,

And here we go down, down, downy;

Here we go backward and forward,

And here we go round, round, roundy."

|Battledore and shuttlecock!

Hither, and thither, and yon:

Never a flight without a knock,

And so the world goes on.

Shuttlecock and battledore!

When will it all be done,--

The life of the buffet and beat be o'er,

And the life of the wings begun?

THE MAN IN THE WILDERNESS.

"The man in the wilderness, he asked me

How many strawberries grew in the sea:

I answered him, as I thought good,

As many red herrings as grew in the wood."

|Of the face of the world they have found

it out

By what they must fetch and do;

Of the heart of the world they dispute and

doubt,

And yet it is just as true.

Your fish is wholesome, and live, and clean,

And my little fruit is fair;

Though the earth's good Maker might never

mean

That both should be everywhere.

And all for the want of a thought like this,

It comes, and it can but be,

That many a soul 's in the wilderness,

And many adrift at sea.

PRAE AND POST.

"The man in the moon

Came down too soon

To inquire the way to Norwich;

The man in the south,

He burnt his mouth

With eating cold plum porridge."

|The moony men are always in a hurry

That puts sedater people in a flurry,

They get their theories through other media

Than facts of gazetteer or cyclopaedia;

And then, by some unknown, preposterous

gateway,

Rush forth to claim the realizing straight-

way.

Just think of lighting on a foreign planet,

Asking for Norwich before folks began it!

But then, those sleepy souls at the equator

Lose just as much, you see, by starting

later;

Never strike in while anything is hot,--

Wait till the porridge is all out o' the

pot;--

And through their indolence and easy fool-

ing

Burn their mouths, figuratively, in the cool-

ing!

Too soon, too slow, there's nothing comes

out even;

The very sun that travels through the

heaven

Heels o'er the line, now this way and now

that,

And only twice a year can hit it pat.

Even your two eyes make a parallax,

And might mislead you on two different

tracks;

Between them both, the moral, I suppose,

Is that each man should follow his own

nose!

QUITE CONTRARY.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells,

And tulips, all of a row."

|Prithee, tell me, Mistress Mary,

Whence this rhyme of "quite contrary"?

Why should Mother Goose, beholding

All these pleasant blooms unfolding,--

Every prim and pretty border

Standing in such shining order,--

Looking o'er the lovely rows,

Ask you "how your garden grows"?

Mary, so precise and chary,

Are you, anyhow, contrary?

While these sweetly perfect lines

Nod their gentle countersigns,

Spending all your strength on this,

Lest the least thing grow amiss,

Weareth some unseen parterre

Quite a different kind of air?

Through your hating of a weed

Runs there any ill to seed,--

Thistle-blow of petulance,

Bitter blade of blame, perchance,

Or a flaunting stem of pride,

In that other garden-side?

Mary, in our women-hearts

Spring such curious counterparts!

Each her home-plot watching wary,

Lest the faultless order vary

By the dropping of a leaf,

Or a blossom come to grief

From the blasting of the storm,

Or the eating of a worm,

Let us both be certain, Mary,

Nothing dearer goes contrary!

ALONG, LONG, LONG.

"As I was going along, long, long,

A singing a comical song, song, song,

The lane that I went was so long, long, long,

And the song that I sung was so long, long, long,

And so I went singing along."

|It 's all along, and along,

For the earth is bonny, and glad, and wide,

And we 're free to wander, and free to bide,

And we travel with a song.

It's long, it's wearily long!

For the path is narrowed to only a lane;

And we 've sung it over and over again,

That old, monotonous song.

Nay, let us be thankful and strong,

That the breath of life is as long as the day,

And the song is as long as the weariful way,

And so, we 'll go singing along!

FINIS.