First it's trot; and gallop then,-- Now it's back to trot again; Teeny-Weeny likes it when He is riding fierce and fast! Then his dark eyes brighter grow And his cheeks are all aglow,-- "More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!" Till the horse breaks down at last!
Oh, the strange and lovely sights Teeny-Weeny sees of nights, As he makes those famous flights On that wondrous horse of his! Oftentimes, before he knows, Wearylike his eyelids close, And, still smiling, off he goes Where the land of By-low is.
There he sees the folk of fay Hard at ring-a-rosie play, And he hears those fairies say, "Come, let's chase him to and fro!" But, with a defiant shout, Teeny puts that host to rout,-- Of this tale I make no doubt,-- Every night he tells it so!
So I feel a tender pride In my boy who dares to ride (That fierce horse of his astride) Off into those misty lands; And as on my breast he lies, Dreaming in that wondrous wise, I caress his folded eyes,-- Pat his little dimpled hands.
On a time he went away, Just a little while to stay, And I'm not ashamed to say I was very lonely then; Life without him was so sad, You can fancy I was glad And made merry when I had Teeny-Weeny back again!
So of evenings, after tea, When he toddles up to me And goes tugging at my knee, You should hear his palfrey neigh! You should see him prance and shy, When, with an exulting cry, Teeny-Weeny, vaulting high, Plies his lash and rides away!
THROUGH those golden summer days Our twin flocks were wont to graze On the hillside, which the sun Rested lovingly upon,-- Telka's flock and mine; and we Sung our songs in rapturous glee, Idling in the pleasant shade Which the solemn Yew-tree made, While the Brook anear us played, And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew In the shadow of the Yew.
Telka loved me passing well; How I loved her none can tell! How I love her none may know,-- Oh that man love woman so! When she was not at my side, Loud my heart in anguish cried, And my lips, till she replied. Yet they think to silence me,-- As if love could silenced be! Fool were I, and fools were they! Still I wend my lonely way, "Telka," evermore I cry; Answer me the woods and sky, And the weary years go by.
Telka, she was passing fair; And the glory of her hair Was such glory as the sun With his blessing casts upon Yonder lonely mountain height, Lifting up to bid good-night To her sovereign in the west, Sinking wearily to rest, Drowsing in that golden sea Where the realms of Dreamland be.