The Dustman

69

No tempests beat that shore remote,

No ships may sail that way;

His little boat alone may float

Within that lovely bay.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,

As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through

the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close

Above the happy eyes;

And every child right well he knows,—

Oh, he is very wise!

But if, as he goes through the land,

A naughty baby cries,

His other hand takes dull gray sand

To close the wakeful eyes.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,

As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through

the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song

Sound through the twilight sweet,

Be sure you do not keep him long

A-waiting in the street.

Lie softly down, dear little head,

Rest quiet, busy hands,

Till, by your bed his good-night said,

He strews the shining sands.

Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown,

As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through

the town.

Margaret Thomson Janvier (1845

THE DUSTMAN

WHEN the toys are growing weary,
And the twilight gathers in;

When the nursery still echoes

With the children's merry din;

Then unseen, unheard, unnoticed
Comes an old man up the stair,
Lightly to the children passes,
Lays his hand upon their hair.

Softly smiles the good old Dustman;
In their eyes the dust he throws,
Till their little heads are falling,

And their weary eyes must close.
Then the Dustman very gently

Takes each little dimpled hand

Leads them through the sweet green shadows, Far away in slumberland.

Frederic Edward Weatherly [1848

SEPHESTIA'S LULLABY

From "Menaphon"

WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe;
Fortune changèd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,

Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint,

Like pearl-drops from a flint,

Fell by course from his eyes,

That one another's place supplies;

Thus he grieved in every part,

Tears of blood fell from his heart,

When he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;

When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,

Mother cried, baby leapt;
More he crowed, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss,
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.

Robert Greene [1560?-1592]

GOLDEN SLUMBERS KISS YOUR EYES"

From "Patient Grissel "'

GOLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,

You are care, and care must keep you.

Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby.

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

Thomas Dekker [1570?-1641?]

“SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP"

SLEEP, baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,
To hear me sing thy lullaby.

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear? What thing to thee can mischief do? Thy God is now thy father dear,

His holy Spouse thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Though thy conception was in sin,
A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And though thy birth unclean hath been,
A blameless babe thou art now made.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

While thus thy lullaby I sing,

For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine Eldest Brother is a king,

And hath a kingdom bought for thee. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;
For whosoever thee offends
By thy protector threatened are,

And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes He took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in His sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A little infant once was He;

And strength in weakness then was laid Upon His Virgin Mother's knee,

That power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Mother's Song

In this thy frailty and thy need

He friends and helpers doth prepare,

Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,
For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of Kings when He was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By Him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord,
Where oxen lay and asses fed:
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle for a bed.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that He did then sustain

Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee,
And by His torments and His pain
Thy rest and ease securèd be.

My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this
A promise and an earnest got

Of gaining everlasting bliss,

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

73

George Wither [1588-1667]

MOTHER'S SONG

My heart is like a fountain true

That flows and flows with love to you.

As chirps the lark unto the tree

So chirps my pretty babe to me.

And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.