That boy did love his moder well, Which spake him faire, I ween; He loved to stand and hold her hand And ken her with his een; His cosset bleated in the croft, His toys unheeded lay,-- He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe, Ben allwais in the way.
Godde loveth children and doth gird His throne with soche as these, And He doth smile in plaisaunce while They cluster at His knees; And sometime, when He looked on earth And watched the bairns at play, He kenned with joy a lyttel boy Ben allwais in the way.
And then a moder felt her heart How that it ben to-torne,-- She kissed eche day till she ben gray The shoon he used to worn; No bairn let hold untill her gown, Nor played upon the floore,-- Godde's was the joy; a lyttel boy Ben in the way no more!
It is very aggravating To hear the solemn prating Of the fossils who are stating That old Horace was a prude; When we know that with the ladies He was always raising Hades, And with many an escapade his Best productions are imbued.
There's really not much harm in a Large number of his carmina, But these people find alarm in a Few records of his acts; So they'd squelch the muse caloric, And to students sophomoric They d present as metaphoric What old Horace meant for facts.
We have always thought 'em lazy; Now we adjudge 'em crazy! Why, Horace was a daisy That was very much alive! And the wisest of us know him As his Lydia verses show him,-- Go, read that virile poem,-- It is No. 25.
He was a very owl, sir, And starting out to prowl, sir, You bet he made Rome howl, sir, Until he filled his date; With a massic-laden ditty And a classic maiden pretty He painted up the city, And Maecenas paid the freight!
"Give me my bow," said Robin Hood, "An arrow give to me; And where 't is shot mark thou that spot, For there my grave shall be."
Then Little John did make no sign, And not a word he spake; But he smiled, altho' with mickle woe His heart was like to break.
He raised his master in his arms, And set him on his knee; And Robin's eyes beheld the skies, The shaws, the greenwood tree.
The brook was babbling as of old, The birds sang full and clear, And the wild-flowers gay like a carpet lay In the path of the timid deer.
"O Little John," said Robin Hood, "Meseemeth now to be Standing with you so stanch and true Under the greenwood tree.