#AmericanWriters
Bambino in his cradle slept; And by his side his grandam grim Bent down and smiled upon the chil… And sung this lullaby to him,— This 'ninna and anninia’:
The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet… To my dear little boy at play - Merrily singeth all day long, As it spinneth and spinneth away. And my dear little boy
Through sleet and fogs to the sali… Where the herring fish meanders, An army sped, and then, 't is said… Swore terribly in Flanders: “————!”
Good editor Dana—God bless him, w… Will soon be afloat on the main, Will be steaming away Through the mist and the spray To the sensuous climate of Spain.
Krinken was a little child,— It was summer when he smiled. Oft the hoary sea and grim Stretched its white arms out to hi… Calling, “Sun-child, come to me;
The Blue and the Gray collided on… In the future great town of Misso… And if all that we hear is the tru… That they tackled each other with… While the weather waxed hot they h…
Shall I woo the one or other? Both attract me—more’s the pity! Pretty is the widowed mother, And the daughter, too, is pretty. When I see that maiden shrinking,
The hero of Affairs of love By far too numerous to be mentione… And scarred as I’m, It seemeth time
Now lithe and listen, gentles all, Now lithe ye all and hark Unto a ballad I shall sing About Buena Park. Of all the wonders happening there
The angel host that sped last nigh… Bearing the wondrous news afar, Came in their ever-glorious flight Unto a slumbering little star. ‘Awake and sing, O star!’ they cr…
I count my treasures o’er with car… The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair. Long years ago this holy time,
When the world is fast asleep, Along the midnight skies— As though it were a wandering clou… The ghostly dream-ship flies. An angel stands at the dream-ship’…
God rest you, Chrysten gentil men… Wherever you may be,— God rest you all in fielde or hall… Or on ye stormy sea; For on this morn oure Chryst is b…
One asketh: “Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: What’s the season pleaseth you? Is it summer suits you best, When from harvest toil we rest?
How calm, how beauteous and how co… How like a sister to the skies, Appears the broad, transparent poo… That in this quiet forest lies. The sunshine ripples on its face,