English Poetry

The Story of Fidgety Philip
~Heinrich Hoffman

"Let me see if Philip can Be a little gentleman; Let me see if he is able To sit still for once at table:" Thus Papa bade Phil behave; And Mamma looked very grave. But fidgety Phil, He won't sit still; He wriggles, And giggles, And then, I declare, Swings backwards and forwards, And tilts up his chair, Just like any rocking-horse- "Philip! I am getting cross!" See the naughty, restless child Growing still more rude and wild, Till his chair falls over quite. Philip screams with all his might, Catches at the cloth, but then That makes matters worse again. Down upon the ground they fall, Glasses, plates, knives, forks, and all. How Mamma did fret and frown, When she saw them tumbling down! And Papa made such a face! Philip is in sad disgrace. Where is Philip, where is he? Fairly covered up you see! Cloth and all are lying on him; He has pulled down all upon him. What a terrible to-do! Dishes, glasses, snapped in two! Here a knife, and there a fork! Philip, this is cruel work. Table all so bare, and ah! Poor Papa, and poor Mamma Look quire cross, and wonder how They shall have their dinner now.

Ferry Me Across the Water
~Christina Rossetti

"Ferry me across the water, Do, boatman, do." "If you've a penny in your purse I'll ferry you." "I have a penny in my purse, And my eyes are blue; So ferry me across the water, Do, boatman, do." "Step into my ferry-boat, Be they black or blue, And for the penny in your purse I'll ferry you."

The Father's Vineyard
~Anonymous

As round their dying father's bed His sons attend, the peasant said: "Children, deep hid from prying eyes, A treasure in my vineyard lies; When you have laid me in the grave, Dig, search-and your reward you'll have." "Father," cries one, "but where's the spot?" He sighs! he sinks! he answers not. The tedious burial service over, Home go his sons, and straight explore Each corner of the vineyard round, Dig up, beat, break, and sift the ground; Yet though to search so well inclined, Nor gold, nor treasure could they find; But when the autumn next drew near, A double vintage crowned the year. "Now," quoth the peasant's wisest son, "Our father's legacy is known, In yon rich purple grapes 'tis seen, Which, but for digging, never had been. Then let us all reflect with pleasure. That labour is the source of treasure."

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