A posy on the table,

  Apples on the shelf,

Goodies in the cupboard,

  That you have made yourself—

These are things the fairies love;

  And do remember this:

A pot of honey in the porch

  Will never come amiss.

A robin in the shrubbery,

  Daisies in the grass,

A rainbow-coloured way-of-the-wind

  Made of tinkling glass,

A big bush of lavender,

  A bed of mignonette,

And a thatched wooden summer-house

  For dancing when it’s wet.

A fire in the parlour

  On chilly summer nights,

A pretty sound of singing

  (Not too many lights)—

These will lure the fairies in;

  And I would have you know,

So long as fairies visit you

  Your luck will never go.

We will dance him on a dainty bed of nettles,

We will rock him on a bonny bough of thorn,

        We will put him for a rest

        In a cuckoo’s borrowed nest,

And the little birds shall push him out at morn.

He stole away a dewdrop from a daisy,

He stole a little breeze from off a down,

        He’s been even known to take

        The moonlight from a lake

And to snatch away a sunbeam from a town.

We will hang his Sunday bonnet on a cloud-peak,

And when he goes a-climbing up the sky

        We will wash him down again

        With a chilly shower of rain

And leave him on a holly-bush to dry.

He stole a poet’s rhyme while he lay sleeping,

He stole a maiden’s dimple as she smiled,

        He stole a poor man’s smoke,

        He stole an old man’s joke,

He stole away a plaything from a child.

We will roll him in a dirty, dusty cobweb,

We will toss him on a prickly thistle-leaf,

        His hands shall be tied up

        In a spotted fox-glove cup

And every one shall know him for a thief.

Will you come to my house, Fairy? I

    am poor, I am poor;

There is no velvet on the chairs, no carpet

    on the floor;

But my mother will bake you a little wee

    cake if you will stay to tea,

And you shall have the rosy apple a lady

    gave to me.

Will you come through our street, Fairy?

    It is not very wide,

There are no pretty shops for you with

    beautiful things inside;

But I’d wait for you at the corner, I’d wait

    the whole day through,

And would carry you hidden away in my

    hand lest people should stare at you.

Won’t you come, won’t you come, Fairy?

    And if you would only bring

A little tiny song with you of the kind that

    the fairies sing,

And if you would show me the way you dance

    under the forest trees,

I should take it very kind of you. Will you

    come, Fairy, please?

Crowds of them and crowds of them

      All among the tide,

On big waves and little waves

      Having such a ride!

Creeping up the crinkly sand,

      Dancing on the rocks,

Crowds of them and crowds of them

      In creamy curly frocks.

Rows of them and rows of them—

      Fifty thousand score,

Glittering and twinkling

      All along the shore;

Sands to dig I knew there were,

      Shrimps to catch for tea;

No one told me I should find

      Fairies by the sea.

I hear a constant calling, more sweet than lily-bells,

And fain am I to wander, to leave our happy dells;

I know not why or whither, but this I surely know—

I cannot stay in Fairyland. I pray you let me go.

I’ll bear with me no wallet, I’ll take with me no charm,

I’ll don no magic coat of mail, yet shall not come to harm,

Nor ever want for shelter; for I shall find my kin;

There will be many doors ajar to let a fairy in.

And some may try to keep me (but I shall never stay),

And some will smile to see me pass and come a little way;

And I shall carry greetings to all who understand,

And I shall whisper in their ears tidings of Fairyland.

And I shall gather treasure: a tale, a song, a flower,

And bring you home a pocketful to fill a happy hour.

And I shall learn the secrets, the hidden ways of men . . .

I shall be wise as mortals are when I come back again.

Some gentle summer evening, before you are aware,

I shall come softly slipping in and you will find me there.

For mortal folk in Fairyland forget their mortal past,

But a little wandering fairy must seek his own at last.

“Trains are all the fashion,”

Said the Fairy in the tree.

“They’ll catch upon the brambles

When we go for moonlight scrambles

And then where shall we be?”

“At the caterpillar’s wedding,”

Said the Pixie in the moss,

“The dewdrops were so fizzy

That all the guests turned dizzy—

The Queen was very cross.”

“The Weather Clerk’s gone crazy,”

Said the Brownie in the fern,

“And all the kinds of weather

Have got mixed up together;

They don’t know where to turn.”

“It’s nothing else but temper,”

Said the Nixie in the pool.

“They’ve hung him on a spire

With a little bit of wire,

And left him there to cool.”

“But have you heard the latest?”

Said the Goblin in the ditch.

“Young Puck has changed the dresses

Of the little twin Princesses,

And they don’t know which is which!”

I am a lovely lady;

I live in a tower by the sea;

Behind the tower are enchanted hills,

In front is a meadow of daffodils

And a little pink almond tree.

I have seventy chests of treasure

With seventy jewelled locks;

Fans and perfumes and silken shawls,

A set of carven ivory balls,

And a painted musical-box.

I have three pretty maids-in-waiting,

Mavis, Minnie, and Merle;

They dance on the grass in their spangled shoon,

While a little brown piper pipes a tune

On a flute of silver and pearl.

But I am a lovely lady. . . .

If you will come over the hills

You shall hear the tune of the musical-box,

You shall have the keys of the seventy locks

And a bunch of my daffodils.

Come out to me, come out and be

  My Valentine this morning;

Far have I come and far have sought

To find the gifts that I have brought—

  And all for your adorning:

A pearly comb as white as foam

  (In a mermaid’s cave I found it),

Painted shoes and a purfled shawl,

A gilt pomander sweet as small

  With a rhyming posy round it;

A rose in bloom; a crimson plume

  Begged from a kindly robin;

A pot of star-dust for your wings,

And rainbow silk, to stitch your things,

  Wound on an ivory bobbin.

And search who may by night, by day,

  The country-side and city,

He’ll find no braver gifts than mine;

Then will you be my Valentine?

  And will you not, my pretty?

The fairies play on the beach at night,

I see them dance in the misty light;

They weave their garlands of seaweed strands,

With ploughs of silver they plough the sands

In dimpled furrows and tiny dells

For a fairy harvest of coloured shells.

I may not join them. I sit on the rocks

Combing my beautiful moon-gold locks,

Spreading them out on the breast of the tide

In a dappled pathway shimmering wide,

Where all the fairies that ever there be

Might come a-dancing over to me.

I sing my songs, but they do not heed,

They will not come. They are wise indeed.

I would gather them close in my golden snare,

I would drag them down in my web of hair;

Nor all the magic that ever might be

Should charm them back from the depths of the sea.

Empty stands the Queen’s House all the winter through—

Don’t you know the Queen’s House—the Queen’s House at Kew?

No one goes a-hunting in the fairy park,

No one goes a-dancing in the hollows after dark.

But suddenly one morning, one morn of happy spring,

All among the bushes the birds begin to sing;

The gardens bud and blossom, the whisper travels fast,

“Have you heard the fairies are back again at last?”

All about the Queen’s House they make their light to-do,

And far and far beneath the trees they spread the royal blue;

And you may see them dance there and you may watch their play;

A penny-piece will let you in. Oh, who could stop away?

The prettiest sight in the world, I think,

Is seeing a fairy eat and drink;

The prettiest sound that ever was heard

Is hearing a fairy sing with a bird.

Mr. Minnitt mends my soles

When I have walked them into holes.

He works in such a funny place

And has a wrinkly, twinkly face

His hands are brown and hard and thin,

His thread goes slowly out and in.

He cannot walk without a crutch—

I like him very, very much.

He comes with mother up the stair.

And by my bed he takes a chair,

And says in such a twinkly way,

“And how’s the invalid to-day?”

He sees my tongue, he sees my throat,

He has a thing inside his coat

With which he listens at my chest,

And that is what I like the best.

He often makes me stay in bed

When I would rather play instead;

And gives me horrid things to take

In bottles that you have to shake.

And yet I never really mind

Because he is so very kind.

You must, I think, be very strong

To be a postman all day long;

For tho’ it snows, or rains, or sleets

He still goes walking through the streets.

I’m sometimes there when he unlocks

And empties out the letter-box;

And if I keep my letter back

He lets me drop it in his sack.

On market days we always call

At Mrs. Barks’s country stall.

Her bonnet is of white and blue,

She wears a coloured apron, too.

And she has baskets full of eggs

And fowls with neatly done up legs,

And butter too, and crinkly cheese

And sometimes plums or raspberries,

And gillyflowers in kitchen pots,

And bunches of forget-me-nots;

She also has a box of tin

For putting all her money in.

She has a very smiling face

And always stands there in her place

However wet the day may be

And says, “Good-morning, love,” to me.

The grocer’s shop has scales of brass,

And pretty biscuits under glass,

All very clean and neat;

And when it’s Mr. Jones himself,

He takes a bottle from the shelf

And offers me a sweet.

And when about the shop I see

Delightful caskets, filled with tea,

And crackers, tier on tier,

And boxes tied with satin bows,

And candied fruits in coloured rows,

I’m very glad, because it shows

That Christmas-time is near.

When I fall and hurt my knee,

Then my mother says to me:

“Nothing much; it might be worse;

What a dreadful darn for nurse!

Let us wash it nice and clean,

Then we’ll get the iodine.”

But my Grannie says: “Oh, dear,

This is rather bad, I fear.

Does it hurt? Well, never mind,

I must see if I can find

Something that will do it good.

Do you think a sweetie would?”

When Daddy shaves and lets me stand and look,

I like it better than a picture-book.

He pulls such lovely faces all the time

Like funny people in a pantomime.

Oh, what shall I give to the little princess?

Red velvet slippers and a blue satin dress,

A battledore of ivory, a shuttlecock of gold,

And a coat of white swansdown to keep her from the cold.

Oh, what shall I give to the King’s little daughter?

A pearl-white sailing boat to sail upon the water,

A bright painted platter on a carved wooden stand,

And a basket full of rosebuds to carry in her hand.

Holes in your stocking heel

      Matter because they show;

But, oh! how I hate, how I hate the feel

      Of a hole in my stocking toe.

In Holland all the children look

Like children in a picture-book;

You can’t believe it till you’re there,

And then you want to stand and stare,

And say—but that would never do—

“Now tell me, are you really true?”

In France the trees and birds and flowers

Are pretty much the same as ours,

But all the things you eat and drink

Are very different, I think;

And certainly the folk you see

Are not the least like you and me.

The tall princess was proud and grand,

The little one held her mother’s hand,

The middling one looked all about—

“Look, look!” she said, “the hawthorn’s out.”

Solemn and stiff was the tall princess,

The little one cried for weariness,

The middling one was gay as could be—

“Will you not come and dance?” said she.

Snowdrops they call them, but I know

That they are prettier than the snow,

And when the snow all melts away

The darling snowdrops stay.

Oranges are very good,

But, if you’d be wise,

Choose an apple for dessert;

Friendly apples never squirt

Juice into your eyes.

Out of the sky the stars fell down

On to the country and on to the town;

They fell on the hedges, they fell on the trees,

They hummed in the air like golden bees;

On the roofs and the roads they lay scattered about,

But they melted away when the sun came out.

The sky by night is high and round;

The edges rest upon the ground.

The sky by day goes stretching on

With not a thing to rest upon.

When I go walking in the dark

The moon goes walking through the sky

      And if for fun

      I jump or run

She jumps and runs the same as I.

I saw them as I lay in bed,

  I saw them scurry by,

Bulls and wolves and buffaloes—

  They rushed across the sky.

Dragons, dolphins, elephants—

  They swam, they ran, they flew

They went so fast they came to bits,

  And the bits went with them too.

And whence they came I could not tell,

  Nor whither sped so fast,

But in a tumbled, troubled cloud

  They still went hurrying past.

Closer and yet more close they pressed,

  Till all the blue was gone,

And when the sky was brimmed with them

  The sky itself moved on.

I’ll give you an orange

  As red as the sun,

A basket of goodies,

  A bookful of fun,

A taffeta sunshade,

  A bonnet of lace,

And a little French doll

  With a porcelain face.

I’ll give you an apple,

  I’ll give you a pear

And a bunch of red berries

  To put in your hair;

A potful of honey,

  A jugful of cream,

And a lavender cushion

  To sweeten your dream.

The attic window’s in the ceiling;

  You only see the clouds go by,

But when I’m there I have a feeling

  Of being very near the sky.

The attic air is warm and dusty,

  And there are boxes full of things,

And rods of iron, rather rusty,

  And beds and trunks and curtain rings.

I often like to go and play there,

  I take my story-book and toys,

It seems so very far away there

  From all the people and the noise.

But when the blue behind the skylight

  Has faded to a dingy grey,

And a mouse scrabbles in the twilight

  I leave my things and go away.

You thought that this was just a pump?

  You are mistaken, quite;

A Royal Throne you here behold

Made all of ivory and gold

  And guarded by a knight.

And this you thought a little girl?

  Indeed, indeed, you’re wrong,

She is the Queen of all the land

And very powerful and grand;

  Her hair is ten feet long.

And these you took for cobble-stones?

  But please to look again.

It is the palace courtyard, sir,

All strewn with cloves and lavender.

  I am the Chamberlain.

Will you not come and feast with us?

  But close the gate, I pray,

Lest robber-men, who lurk about,

Should enter with a horrid shout

  And carry you away.

I like potatoes in a mound

All smoothly mashed, with gravy round,

Or in their jackets brown and clean

With folds of napkin in between.

In spring-time, too, they’re good to eat

When they are new and small and neat.

But I would like the best of all

To buy and eat them at a stall.

A little old man in a little round house,

He lived with a rabbit, a hen, and a mouse,

And every night when the stars were out,

Oh, but they scampered and scampered about,

Over the roof and over the vane

And into the little round house again.

To-day, as I was walking in the street,

  You cannot guess the lovely thing I found:

  A coloured rainbow spilt upon the ground

            Close at my feet.

The colours spread in wavy lines and rings

  Purple and yellow, green and red and blue;

  They came and went, as I have seen them do

            On beetly things.

I thought it was as pretty as could be;

  But not a single person seemed to care

  Nor even see that it was lying there,

            Excepting me.

The moon by night, the sun by day,

My story-books and school-books say.

And yet one early afternoon

Most certainly I saw the moon;

And wouldn’t it indeed be fun

If some dark night I saw the sun?

Piper, piper, play me a tune

Of a summery, sunshiny afternoon,

And the little brown bunnies will all come out,

Frisking and jumping and bobbing about.

Piper, piper, play me a tune,

Of a posy of stars, and a little wee moon.

And all the fairies will start to sing

And dance on the grass in a great round ring.

“Cock-a-Doodle-Doo,

It’s after half-past two.”

Fiddle-diddle-dee,

What is that to me?

You may crow and crow,

But I’d have you know

I don’t mean to get

Out of bed just yet;

And what’s more, I won’t,

Cock-a-doodle . . . Don’t!

The church bells at Christmas-time

  Ring all about the town;

The gay folk at Christmas-time

  Go walking up and down;

They smile at me, they smile at you

  The streets and squares are smiling too.

In every house at Christmas-time

  Are pretty sights to see;

And strange things at Christmas-time

  Do grow upon a tree;

And one for me and one for you,

  And isn’t it a sweet to-do?

The gardener works away for hours

To make the borders gay with flowers.

He plants the bulbs and sows the seeds,

He digs and hoes and rakes and weeds,

And every day has work to do

In winter and in summer too.

But in the Windy Wood I found

The bluebells thick upon the ground,

And in the sloping fields below

Thousands of yellow cowslips grow;

And yet to tend them there is none

Except the wind and rain and sun.

Mustn’t it be sweet

To alight upon your feet

On a slender, leafy spray

And set it swinging?

Mustn’t it be gay

To be out-of-doors all day,

In the pleasant summer heat

And keep singing?