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baby beautiful birds blessed blue bright brother busy child clothes cold comes dear door eyes face fair Father fear feel flowers friends gentle give given glad glory gone hand happy Hastings head hear heard heart heaven holy I'll Jesus keep kind lambs light little child little children little girl live look Lord mamma Mary mild morning mother nest never nice night Nursery Songs o'er once play pleasant poor praise pray prayer pretty rest rise robin round Saviour seek sing sister sleep smile snow soft Songs soon soul stand sure sweet teach tell thank thee things thou thought to-day tree walk warm watch wings wish young
270 psl. - Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free ! The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared, This was their welcome home.
141 psl. - Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea; "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.
58 psl. - Little drops of water, Little grains of sand Make the mighty ocean, And the pleasant land.
109 psl. - In works of labour, or of skill, I would be busy too ; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.
142 psl. - And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.
263 psl. - Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head poor foolish thing!
167 psl. - WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 1. WHAT is that, mother ? The lark, my child. The morn has but just looked out and smiled, When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 2. What is that, mother ? The dove, my son.
194 psl. - Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.
269 psl. - And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came, Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come, In silence...