A Book for Kids

To all good children over four And under four-and-eighty Be you not over-prone to pore On matters grave and weighty. Mayhap you'll find within this book Some touch of Youth's rare clowning, If you will condescend to look And not descend to frowning.

The mind of one small boy may hold Odd fancies and inviting, To guide a hand unsure and old That moves, these days, to writing. For hair once bright, in days of yore, Grows grey (or somewhat slaty), And now, alas, he's over four, Though under four-and-eighty.

The Baker

I'd like to be a baker, and come when morning breaks, Calling out, "Beeay-ko!" (that's the sound he makes)-- Riding in a rattle-cart that jogs and jolts and shakes, Selling all the sweetest things a baker ever bakes; Currant-buns and brandy-snaps, pastry all in flakes; But I wouldn't be a baker if . . . I couldn't eat the cakes. Would you?

The Dawn Dance

What do you think I saw to-day when I arose at dawn? Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn! Bobbing here, and bowing there, gossiping away, And how I wished that you were there to see the merry play!

But you were snug abed, my boy, blankets to your chin, Nor dreamed of dancing birds without or sunbeams dancing in. Grey Thrush, he piped the tune for them. I peeped out through the glass Between the window curtains, and I saw them on the grass--

Merry little fairy folk, dancing up and down, Blue bonnet, yellow skirt, cloaks of grey and brown, Underneath the wattle-tree, silver in the dawn, Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn.

Cuppacumalonga

'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, where go you to-day?' I go to Cuppacumalonga, fifty miles away; Over plains where Summer rains have sung a song of glee, Over hills where laughing rills go seeking for the sea, I go to Cuppacumalonga, to my brother Bill. Then come along, ah, come along! Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga! Come to Cuppacumalonga Hill!

'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, how do you get there?' For twenty miles I amble on upon my pony mare, The walk awhile and talk awhile to country men I know, Then up to ride a mile beside a team that travels slow, And last to Cuppacumalonga, riding with a will. Then come along, ah, come along! Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga! Come to Cuppacumalonga Hill!

'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, what do you do then?' I camp beneath a kurrajong with three good cattle-men; Then off away at break of day, with strong hands on the reins, To laugh and sing while mustering the cattle on the plains-- For up to Cuppacumalonga life is jolly still. Then come along, ah, come along! Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga! Come to Cuppacumalonga Hill!

'Rover, rover, cattle-drover, how may I go too?' I'll saddle up my creamy colt and he shall carry you-- My creamy colt who will not bolt, who does not shy nor kick-- We'll pack the load and take the road and travel very quick. And if the day brings work or play we'll meet it with a will. So Hi for Cuppacumalonga! Come Along, ah, come along! Ah, come to Cuppacumalonga Hill!

The Swagman

Oh, he was old and he was spare; His bushy whiskers and his hair Were all fussed up and very grey He said he'd come a long, long way And had a long, long way to go. Each boot was broken at the toe, And he'd a swag upon his back. His billy-can, as black as black, Was just the thing for making tea At picnics, so it seemed to me.

'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread, He told me. Then he shook his head, And all the little corks that hung Around his hat-brim danced and swung And bobbed about his face; and when I laughed he made them dance again. He said they were for keeping flies-- "The pesky varmints"--from his eyes. He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see The best days of your life," said he. "But days will come to bend your back, And, when they come, keep off the track. Keep off, young codger, if you can." He seemed a funny sort of man.

He told me that he wanted work, But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke, And he supposed he'd have to go Another fifty mile or so. "Nigh all my life the track I've walked," He said. I liked the way he talked. And oh, the places he had seen! I don't know where he had not been-- On every road, in every town, All through the country, up and down. "Young codger, shun the track," he said. And put his hand upon my head. I noticed, then, that his old eyes Were very blue and very wise. "Ay, once I was a little lad," He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.

I sometimes think: When I'm a man, I'll get a good black billy-can And hang some corks around my hat, And lead a jolly life like that.

The Ant Explorer

Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam-- To fare away far away, far away from home. He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went-- Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone, Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone, Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high, Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky, Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss, Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across. 'Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread, He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed. His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent, And so he turned around again and here's the way he went-- Back away from desert lands feet and feet across, Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss, Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky, Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high, Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone, Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone. A dreary ant, a weary ant, resolved no more to roam, He staggered up the garden path and popped back home.

Riding Song

Flippity-flop! Flippity-flop! Here comes the butcher to bring us a chop Cantering, cantering down the wide street On his little bay mare with the funny white feet; Cantering, cantering out to the farm, Stripes on his apron and basket on arm. Run to the window and tell him to stop-- Flippity-flop! Flippity-flop!

The Funny Hatter

Harry was a funny man, Harry was a hatter; He ate his lunch at breakfast time and said it didn't matter. He made a pot of melon jam and put it on a shelf, For he was fond of sugar things and living by himself. He built a fire of bracken and a blue-gum log, And he sat all night beside it with his big--black--dog.

The Postman

I'd like to be a postman, and walk along the street, Calling out, "Good Morning, Sir," to gentlemen I meet, Ringing every door-bell all along my beat, In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat. Perhaps I'd have a parasol in case of rain or heat; But I wouldn't be a postman if . . . The walking hurt my feet. Would you?

The Traveller

As I rode in to Burrumbeet, I met a man with funny feet; And, when I paused to ask him why His feet were strange, he rolled his eye And said the rain would spoil the wheat; So I rode on to Burrumbeet.

As I rode in to Beetaloo, I met a man whose nose was blue; And when I asked him how he got A nose like that, he answered, "What Do bullocks mean when they say 'Moo'?" So I rode on to Beetaloo.

As I rode in to Ballarat, I met a man who wore no hat; And, when I said he might take cold, He cried, "The hills are quite as old As yonder plains, but not so flat." So I rode on to Ballarat.

As I rode in to Gundagai, I met a man and passed him by Without a nod, without a word. He turned, and said he'd never heard Or seen a man so wise as I. But I rode on to Gundagai.

As I rode homeward, full of doubt, I met a stranger riding out: A foolish man he seemed to me; But, "Nay, I am yourself," said he, "Just as you were when you rode out." So I rode homeward, free of doubt.