Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
ENGLISH (1809-1892)
The Fairies
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
IRISH (1824-1889)
Little Orphant Annie
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board an’ keep:
An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch tales ’at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his pray’rs —
An’ when he went to bed ’at night, away up-stairs,
His mammy heerd him holler, an’ his daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole an’ press.
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, and every wheres, I guess,
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout!
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’ one an’ all her blood an’ kin,
An’ onc’t when they was “company,” an’ ol’ folks was there,
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she’s about!
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ Little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lampwick splutters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away, —
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,
An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore and needy ones ’at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
AMERICAN (1849-1916)
THANKSGIVING
Grace for a Child
Here a little child I stand,
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat, and on us all. Amen.
ROBERT HERRICK
ENGLISH (1591-1674)
The Thanksgivings
We who are here present thank the Great Spirit that we are
here to praise Him.
We thank Him that He has created men and women, and
ordered that these beings shall always be living to
multiply the earth.
We thank Him for making the earth and giving these beings
its products to live on.
We thank Him for the water that comes out of the earth and
runs for our lands.
We thank Him for all the animals on the earth.
We thank Him for certain timbers that grow and have fluids
coming from them for us all.
We thank Him for the branches of the trees that grow
shadows for our shelter.
We thank Him for the beings that come from the west, the
thunder and lightning that water the earth.
We thank Him for the light which we call our oldest
brother, the sun that works for our good.
We thank Him for all the fruits that grow on the trees and
vines.
We thank Him for his goodness in making the forests, and
thank all its trees.
We thank Him for the darkness that gives us rest, and for
the kind Being of the darkness that gives us light, the
moon.
We thank Him for the bright spots in the skies that give us
signs, the stars.
We give Him thanks for our supporters, who had charge of
our harvests.
We give thanks that the voice of the Great Spirit can still be
heard through the words of Ga-ne-o-di-o.
We thank the Great Spirit that we have the privilege of this
pleasant occasion.
We give thanks for the persons who can sing the Great
Spirit’s music, and hope they will be privileged to
continue in his faith.
We thank the Great Spirit for all the persons who perform
the ceremonies on this occasion.
TRADITIONAL
IROQUOIS
TRANSLATED BY HARRIET MAXWELL CONVERSE
The New-England Boy’s Song about Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For ’t is Thanksgiving day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play —
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving day!
Over the river, and through the wood —
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground
Like a hunting hound,
For ’t is Thanksgiving day!
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood —
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood —
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood —
Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
LYDIA MARIA CHILD
AMERICAN (1802-1880)
The Pumpkin
O, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o’er Nineveh’s prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
O,—fruit loved of boyhood!—the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon.
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present!—none sweeter or better
E’er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o’er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
AMERICAN (1807-1892)
Signs of the Times
Air a-gittin’ cool an’ coolah,
Frost a-comin’ in de night,
Hicka’ nuts an’ wa’nuts fallin’,
Possum keepin’ out o’ sight.
Tu’key struttin’ in de ba’nya’d,
Nary step so proud ez his;
Keep on struttin’, Mistah Tu’key,
Yo’ do’ know whut time it is.
Cidah press commence a-squeakin’
Eatin’ apples sto’ed away,
Chillun swa’min’ ’roun’ lak ho’nets,
Huntin’ aigs ermung de hay,
Mistah Tu’key keep on gobblin’
At de geese a-flyin’ souf,
Oomph! dat bird do’ know whut’s comin’;
Ef he did he’d shet his mouf.
Mek me open up my eyes;
Seems lak it’s a-lookin’ at me
Jes’ a-la’in’ dah sayin’ “Pies.”
Tu’key gobbler gwine ’roun’ blowin’,
Gwine ’roun’ gibbin’ sass an’ slack;
Keep on talkin’, Mistah Tu’key,
You ain’t seed no almanac.
Fa’mer walkin’ th’oo de ba’nya’d
Seein’ how things is comin’ on,
Sees ef all de fowls is fatt’nin’ —
Good times comin’ sho’s you bo’n,
Hyeahs dat tu’key gobbler braggin’,
Den his face break in a smile —
Nebbah min’, you sassy rascal,
He’s gwine nab you atter while.
Choppin’ suet in de kitchen,
Stonin’ raisins in de hall,
Beef a-cookin’ fu’ de mince meat,
Spices groun’—I smell ’em all.
Look hyeah, Tu’key, stop dat gobblin’,
You ain’ luned de sense ob feah,
You ol’ fool, yo’ naik’s in dangah,
Do’ you know Thanksgibbin’s hyeah?
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
AMERICAN (1872-1906)
THE CHRISTMAS SEASON
Make we merry both more and less
Make we merry both more and less,
For now is the time of Christmas.
Let no man come into this hall,
Groom, page, nor yet marshal,
But that some sport he bring withal,
For now is the time of Christmas.
If that he say he cannot sing
Some other sport then let him bring
That it may please at this feasting,
For now is the time of Christmas.
If he say he
can nought do,
Then for my love ask him no mo’,
But to the stocks then let him go,
For now is the time of Christmas.
ANONYMOUS
ENGLISH (16TH CENTURY)
All you that to feasting and mirth are inclined
All you that to feasting and mirth are inclined,
Come here is good news for to pleasure your mind,
Old Christmas is come for to keep open house,
He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse:
Then come, boys, and welcome for diet the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.
The holly and ivy about the walls wind
And show that we ought to our neighbors be kind,
Inviting each other for pastime and sport,
And where we best fare, there we most do resort;
We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.
All travellers, as they do pass on their way,
At gentlemen’s halls are invited to stay,
Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest,
Since that he must be Old Christmas’s guest;
Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief,
Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.
ANONYMOUS
ENGLISH (MEDIEVAL)
New Prince, New Pomp
Behold a silly tender babe
In freezing winter night
In homely manger trembling lies:
Alas! a piteous sight.
The inns are full; no man will yield
This little pilgrim bed;
But forced he is with silly beasts
In crib to shroud his head.
Despise not him for lying there;
First what he is inquire:
An orient pearl is often found
In depth of dirty mire.
Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish,
Nor beasts that by him feed;
Weigh not his mother’s poor attire,
Nor Joseph’s simple weed.
This stable is a Prince’s court,
This crib his chair of state,
The beasts are parcel of his pomp,
The wooden dish his plate.
The persons in that poor attire
His royal liveries wear;
The Prince himself is come from heaven.
This pomp is prizèd there.
With joy approach, O Christian wight,
Do homage to thy King;
And highly praise this humble pomp
Which he from heaven doth bring.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
ENGLISH (1561-1595)