I call you bad, my little child,

Upon the title page,

Because a manner rude and wild

Is common at your age.

The Moral of this priceless work

(If rightly understood)

Will make you -- from a little Turk --

Unnaturally good.

Do not as evil children do,

Who on the slightest grounds

Will imitate the Kangaroo,

With wild unmeaning bounds:

Do not as children badly bred,

Who eat like little Hogs,

And when they have to go to bed

Will whine like Puppy Dogs:

Who take their manners from the Ape,

Their habits from the Bear,

Indulge the loud unseemly jape,

And never brush their hair.

But so control your actions that

Your friends may all repeat.

"This child is dainty as the Cat,

And as the Owl discreet."

The Yak

As a friend to the children

Commend me the Yak.

You will find it exactly the thing:

It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,

Or lead it about with a string.

The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet

(A desolate region of snow)

Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,

And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell you papa where the Yak can be got,

And if he is awfully rich

He will buy you the creature --

or else

        he will not.

(I cannot be positive which.)

The Dromedary

The Dromedary is a cheerful bird:

I cannot say the same about the Kurd.

The Elephant

When people call this beast to mind,

They marvel more and more

At such a little tail behind,

So large a trunk before.

The Whale

The Whale that wanders round the Pole

Is not a table fish.

You cannot bake or boil him whole

Nor serve him in a dish;

But you may cut his blubber up

And melt it down for oil.

And so replace the colza bean

(A product of the soil).

These facts should all be noted down

And ruminated on,

By every boy in Oxford town

Who wants to be a Don.

The Hippopotamus

I shoot the Hippopotamus

With bullets made of platinum,

Because if I use leaden ones

His hide is sure to flatten 'em.

The Marmozet

The species Man and Marmozet

Are intimately linked;

The Marmozet survives as yet,

But Men are all extinct.

The Big Baboon

The Big Baboon is found upon

The plains of Cariboo:

He goes about with nothing on

(A shocking thing to do).

But if he dressed up respectably

And let his whiskers grow,

How like this Big Baboon would be

To Mister So-and-so!

The Frog

Be kind and tender to the Frog,

And do not call him names,

As "Slimy skin," or "Polly-wog,"

Or likewise "Ugly James,"

Or "Gap-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"

Or "Bill Bandy-knees":

The Frog is justly sensitive

To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay

A treatment kind and fair;

At least so lonely people say

Who keep a frog (and, by the way,

They are extremely rare).

The Lion

The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,

He has a big head and a very small waist;

But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,

And a good little child will not play with him.

The Tiger

The tiger, on the other hand,

Is kittenish and mild,

And makes a pretty playfellow

For any little child.

And mothers of large families

(Who claim to common sense)

Will find a tiger well repays

The trouble and expense.

The parents of the learned child

(His father and his mother)

Were utterly aghast to note

The facts he would at random quote

On creatures curious, rare, and wild;

And wondering, ask each other:

"An idle little child like this,

How is it that he knows

What years of close analysis

Are powerless to disclose?

Our brains are trained, our books are big,

And yet we always fail

To answer why the Guinea-pig

Is born without a tail.

Or why the Wanderoo should rant

In wild, unmeaning rhymes,

Whereas the Indian Elephant

Will only read The Times.

Perhaps he found a way to slip

Unnoticed to the Zoo,

And gave the Pachyderm a tip,

Or pumped the Wanderoo.

Or even by an artful plan

Deceived our watchful eyes,

And interviewed the Pelican,

Who is extremely wise."

"Oh! no," said he, in humble tone,

With shy but conscious look,

"Such facts I never could have known

But for this little book."

The Scorpion

The Scorpion is as black as soot,

He dearly loves to bite;

He is a most unpleasant brute

To find in bed at night.

The Vulture

The Vulture eats between his meals,

And that's the reason why

He very, very, rarely feels

As well as you and I.

His eye is dull, his head is bald,

His neck is growing thinner.

Oh! what a lesson for us all

To only eat at dinner!

The Microbe

The Microbe is so very small

You cannot make him out at all,

But many sanguine people hope

To see him through a microscope.

His jointed tongue that lies beneath

A hundred curious rows of teeth;

His seven tufted tails with lots

Of lovely pink and purple spots,

On each of which a pattern stands,

Composed of forty separate bands;

His eyebrows of a tender green;

All these have never yet been seen--

But Scientists, who ought to know,

Assure us that they must be so....

Oh! let us never, never doubt

What nobody is sure about!

The Chief Defect of Henry King

Was chewing little bits of String.

At last he swallowed some which tied

Itself in ugly Knots inside.

Physicians of the Utmost Fame

Were called at once; but when they came

They answered, as they took their Fees,

``There is no Cure for this Disease.

``Henry will very soon be dead.''

His Parents stood about his Bed

Lamenting his Untimely Death,

When Henry, with his Latest Breath,

Cried, ``Oh, my Friends, be warned by me,

That Breakfast, Dinner, Lunch, and Tea

Are all the Human Frame requires...''

With that, the Wretched Child expires.

Jim

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;

His Friends were very good to him.

They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,

And slices of delicious Ham,

And Chocolate with pink inside

And little Tricycles to ride,

And read him Stories through and through,

And even took him to the Zoo--

But there it was the dreadful Fate

Befell him, which I now relate.

You know--or at least you ought to know,

For I have often told you so--

That Children never are allowed

To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;

Now this was Jim's especial Foible,

He ran away when he was able,

And on this inauspicious day

He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when--Bang!

With open Jaws, a lion sprang,

And hungrily began to eat

The Boy: beginning at his feet.

Now, just imagine how it feels

When first your toes and then your heels,

And then by gradual degrees,

Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,

Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.

No wonder Jim detested it!

No wonder that he shouted ``Hi!''

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,

Though very fat he almost ran

To help the little gentleman.

``Ponto!'' he ordered as he came

(For Ponto was the Lion's name),

``Ponto!'' he cried, with angry Frown,

``Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!''

The Lion made a sudden stop,

He let the Dainty Morsel drop,

And slunk reluctant to his Cage,

Snarling with Disappointed Rage.

But when he bent him over Jim,

The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.

The Lion having reached his Head,

The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they

Were more Concerned than I can say:--

His Mother, as She dried her eyes,

Said, ``Well--it gives me no surprise,

He would not do as he was told!''

His Father, who was self-controlled,

Bade all the children round attend

To James's miserable end,

And always keep a-hold of Nurse

For fear of finding something worse.

Charles Augustus Fortescue

The nicest child I ever knew

Was Charles Augustus Fortescue.

He never lost his cap, or tore

His stockings or his pinafore:

In eating Bread he made no Crumbs,

He was extremely fond of sums,

To which, however, he preferred

The Parsing of a Latin Word--

He sought, when it was within his power,

For information twice an hour,

And as for finding Mutton-Fat

Unappatising, far from that!

He often, at his Father's Board,

Would beg them, of his own accord,

To give him, if they did not mind,

The Greasiest Morsels they could find--

His Later Years did not belie

The Promise of his Infancy.

In Public Life he always tried

To take a judgement Broad and Wide;

In Private, none was more than he

Renowned for quiet courtesy.

He rose at once in his Career,

And long before hus Fortieth Year

Had wedded Fifi, Only Child

Of Bunyan, First Lord Aberfylde.

He thus became immensely Rich,

And built the Splendid Mansion which

Is called The Cedars, Muswell Hill,

Where he resides in affluence still,

To show what everybody might

Become by SIMPLY DOING RIGHT.

Rebecca

The South Country

WHEN I am living in the Midlands

That are sodden and unkind,

I light my lamp in the evening:

My work is left behind;

And the great hills of the South Country

Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country

They stand along the sea;

And it's there walking in the high woods

That I could wish to be,

And the men that were boys when I was a boy

Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England

I saw them for a day:

Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,

Their skies are fast and grey;

From their castle-walls a man may see

The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England

They see the Severn strong,

A-rolling on rough water brown

Light aspen leaves along.

They have the secret of the Rocks,

And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country

Are the kindest and most wise,

They get their laughter from the loud surf,

And the faith in their happy eyes

Comes surely from our Sister the Spring

When over the sea she flies;

The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,

She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines

But I smell the Sussex air;

Nor I never come on a belt of sand

But my home is there.

And along the sky the line of the Downs

So noble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find,

Nor a broken thing mend:

And I fear I shall be all alone

When I get towards the end.

Who will there be to comfort me

Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends

Of the men of the Sussex Weald;

They watch the stars from silent folds,

They stiffly plough the field.

By them and the God of the South Country

My poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man,

Or if ever I grow to be old,

I will build a house with deep thatch

To shelter me from the cold,

And there shall the Sussex songs be sung

And the story of Sussex told.

I will hold my house in the high wood

Within a walk of the sea,

And the men that were boys when I was a boy

Shall sit and drink with me.

Hilaire Belloc

Ha'nacker Mill

SALLY is gone that was so kindly,

Sally is gone from Ha'nacker Hill

And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly;

And ever since then the clapper is still...

And the sweeps have fallen from Ha'nacker Mill.

Ha'nacker Hill is in Desolation:

Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.

And Spirits that call on a fallen nation,

Spirits that loved her calling aloud,

Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.

Spirits that call and no one answers --

Ha'nacker's down and England's done.

Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers,

And never a ploughman under the Sun:

Never a ploughman. Never a one.

Hilaire Belloc

Tarantella

DO you remember an Inn,

Miranda?

Do you remember an Inn?

And the tedding and the bedding

Of the straw for a bedding,

And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,

And the wine that tasted of tar?

And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers

(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?

Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,

Do you remember an Inn?

And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers

Who hadn't got a penny,

And who weren't paying any,

And the hammer at the doors and the din?

And the hip! hop! hap!

Of the clap

Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl

Of the girl gone chancing,

Glancing,

Dancing,

Backing and advancing,

Snapping of the clapper to the spin

Out and in--

And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!

Do you remember an Inn,

Miranda?

Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;

Miranda,

Never more.

Only the high peaks hoar;

And Aragon a torrent at the door.

No sound

In the walls of the halls where falls

The tread

Of the feet of the dead to the ground,

No sound:

But the boom

Of the far waterfall like doom.

Hilaire Belloc