Bonny bairns
Date: 2026-04-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Children's poetry; American; Picture books for children

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Title: Bonny bairns

Illustrator: Ida Waugh

Author: Amy Ella Blanchard

Release date: April 2, 2026 [eBook #78348]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Worthington Co, 1888

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78348

Credits: David Edwards, Jwala Kumar Sista and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BONNY BAIRNS ***

BONNY BAIRNS

CONTENTS

Title | Page
Dedication. | 02
A Story. | 04
What Baby is Like. | 06
TWO MAMMAS. | 08
Comfort. | 10
Down by the Garden Wall. | 12
Two Kittys. | 14
Hoops. | 16
My Lover. | 19
Say Please. | 20
Jumpity-Jump. | 22
The Butterfly. | 25
Two Years Old. | 26
Orphaned. | 28
The Old Clock. | 30
Too Sure. | 34
What’s in the Basket? | 36
When the Winds are Blowing. | 37
Supper. | 38
Shadows. | 40
The Chimney Bird. | 42
Where is Milly? | 45
Snow. | 47
Bed Time. | 48

Dedication.

For all bonny bairns, little boys, little girls,

With blue eyes or brown eyes, with tangles or curls,

Here are pictures and stories, whatever your mood,

To help you all smile, and to make you all good;

To put you to sleep; to make you forget

Your pain when you’re sick, your frowns when you fret.

The children you’ll find here, all did as you do,

And hope you will love them, for they all love you.

Bonny· Bairns

Illustrations by

·IDA·WAUGH·

Verses by

·AMY·ELLA·BLANCHARD·

.Worthington·Co·New·York

·

COPYRIGHT 1888 BY WORTHINGTON CO·NEW YORK·

A Story.

“Please tell me a story, Peggy.”

“Well, then, and what shall it be?

About a star or a fairy,

Or children like you and me?”

“Not children. I’m tired of children,

They always do something wrong.

I think a star would be better;

Don’t make the story too long.”

“Well, once a bright star was shining,
’Way up in the dark, night sky,
And it had a little sister,
That was shining too, close by.”

And the moon was their own mother,
And she said they must come in;
But they said they didn’t want to.
They’d like to see day begin

“So they shone, and shone, and shone there,

Till they had a great surprise:

For up came the sun so brightly,

That it most put out their eyes.”

What Baby is Like.

Baby grows like a flower,
Baby is fresh as a rose,
Daintily hued as the blossoms,
As the fragrant apple blows.

Baby is sweet as a song is,

The song of a twilight bird.

He’s bright as the lark’s gay trilling,

That early dawn has stirred.

Baby shines as a star does,
Gold gleams his darling head,
White pillow clouds around him,
Where he peeps out of bed.

Baby is dear as—O, baby!

Nothing so dear can be,

In all the wide world’s wonder,

As this little baby to me.

TWO MAMMAS.

“My mamma is buful.”

“Mine is bufuller.

No one ever, ever saw

Any one like her.”

“My mamma is sweetest.”

“Mine is sweetest, too.”

“My mamma has brown eyes.”

“My mamma has blue.”

“My mamma loves me most.”

“My mamma loves me.”

“Mine calls me her lovey-dove.”

“Mine says ‘Birdie wee.’”

“My mamma is bestest.”

“Mine is goodest best.”

“Well, she is my own mamma,

That’s worth all the rest.”

Comfort.

“W hat, tears! my little one, how’s this?”

Come, climb up in my lap, and tell me all about it.

You will not love me? Will not kiss?

It isn’t a nice world? Why, Dear, what makes you doubt it?

First, then, your little cunning kit,

That you believed was always good, and soft, and furry,

Showed claws, scratched you, and fought, and bit,

And all because you were in such a hurry,

You could not wait for her to eat,

But picked her up before her meal was over.

“She ought to love you more than meat.”

Well, so she ought, but then a cat’s not a good lover.

And then, the fairy tale Ned told,
It was so beautiful; you wanted it forever.
Next day he said you were too old

To think such nonsense could be true; that there were never

Fairies, or brownies, or such stuff.

And now you never can again believe it,

As though your cat’s claws weren’t enough.

“This horrid world! why do not people it.”

Why Dear, my little brown-eyed Dear,

I, great big I, am in just such a trouble.

Don’t cry; why I have not one tear,

And tears, maybe, will make us see things double.

My kitten would not love me best,

And when I stroked its fur the wrong way, showed its claws too.

My fairy tale, it was confessed,

No truer, Dear, than yours, and yet I thought it was true.

Now you love me, and I’ll love you,
And tell you all about a really, truly fairy—
About a little girl I knew,

Whose name was just the same as—guess—as yours? Yes, Mary.

Down by the Garden Wall.

Down by the garden wall,
There grew a flower,
And it grew so tall
That the sun, he kissed it,
The breeze tried to twist it,
The birds would insist it
Was no flower at all.

Down by the garden wall,
The bees and birds flew,
And butterflies, all
Seeing the flower too,
One said ’twas a pitty,
Another ’twas pretty,
The birds said “Twit-twit tee,
’Twill most surely fall.”

Down by the garden wall,
Some one came running,
Not near so tall
As the flow’r a sunning
Itself in the sun,
But no bud begun
Was so sweet a one
As this one so small.

Who, by the garden wall,
Reached up to the flower
On tiptoe; so small
That o’er her would tower
The blossom, so pink.
Said some one, “I think
You must need a drink,
Sweet flower.” They call

You a weed by the wall,
But better I know you,
You’re no weed at all.
To mamma I will show you,
She’ll put you a vase in,
Or fine China basin,
Some lovely cool place in.
Then come, flower tall.

Two Kittys.

What a big pussy-cat,

Lapping up the milk,

Does it say Mew, Mew,

As other kits do?

Has it fur soft as silk?

And furry paws to pat?

What does Miss Milly think

To see her milk gone?

Shall we say Scat! Scat!

To this great big cat?

Shall we give it a bone

Instead of milk to drink?

You’re not a really cat?

So I see, my dear,

With your curly pate,

And your name’s Kit-Kate?

I thought ’twas very queer,

That cats grew big as that.

Don’t be a kitty-cat,
My little Kit-Kate,
Else, may be, you know,
Your whiskers might grow.
Upon my word, I’d hate
To hear you say Pstiss! Spat!

Hoops.

Two little girls were out at play,
The day was bright and sunny,
Each saw the other one, and laughed,
They must have thought it funny.

“Your hoop is very small,” said Grace.

“And yours is big,” said Gussy.

Grace said, “Suppose I change with you,

I’m not the least bit fussy.”

And then both of them laughed again,
Right in each other’s faces,
And Grace took Gussie’s hoop to roll,
So Gussy trundled Grace’s.

They ran and laughed, and laughed and ran,
Their hoops went over, under;
And when they said “Goodbye” they laughed,
At what, I really wonder.

My Lover.

Have I a lover? I can’t say no,

For some one always tells me so.

And I let him? Of course, you see

It does no harm to him or me.

Do we quarrel? Why, how you ask

Me questions. Take me quite to task.

We quarrel? Yes, we sometimes do;

But then, we kiss and make up, too.

What does he look like? Is he tall?

Blue eyes or brown? mouth large or small?

His eyes are large and soft and grey,

And he is quite tall, so they say.

He loves me dearly, and I’m sure
His love is warm, and strong and pure;
In all the world he loves me best,
Thinks I’m the sweetest, prettiest.

He says he’ll have no wife but me;
Wherever I am he must be;
My steps he guards with loving care,
When we go walking anywhere.

You think I’m proud of him, you say.

Such are not found, dear, every day.

I only hope when you are grown,

You’ll have as true love for your own.

When will we marry? I must smile,
You look so gravely all the while;
I’m old enough to be his mother,
Why, dear, he is your baby brother.

Say Please.

“No, not a bit of breakfast,
For chickens big or small;
Until you ask politely,
No single grain shall fall.
So, say Please, if you please,
Any way you want to,
With a cluck, cluck; peep, peep;
Or cock-a-doodle-doo;
With a caw-caw; quack, quack;
Say any one of these;
I am not particular.
If it only means please.”

Mr. Rooster, Mrs. Hen,
Set a good example,
Show the other ones the way
With a little sample
Of your Please, if you please,
Any way you choose to,
Crow or cluck, peep or caw,
Else I must refuse you;
Breakfast will be dinner,
Unless you all make haste;
“And your dinner will be supper,
Before you get a taste.”

Then up spoke Mr. Rooster,
And crowed his very best;
“Cluck, cluck,” said Mrs. Hen, and then
Soon followed all the rest.
It was “Caw! Caw! Cock-a-doo!”
In voices high and deep,
The big ones crowed and cawed,
The little ones cried “Peep,”
But everything meant “Please,
We want our breakfast, please,”
Till Nellie said “I never knew
Of chicks polite as these.”

Jumpity-Jump.

Jumpity! jumpity! jump!
My little sugar lump
Has kicked off his shoe,
And one stocking, too—
Such a baby to jump!

Trotity! trotity! trot!
Curly haired little tot
Must have some fresh air,
’Neath trees green and fair,
Before the sun is too hot.

Rockity! rockity! rock!
Baby-boy in a white frock,
All over the floor,
Like ships from the shore,
Baby and I will rock.

Niddy-nid! niddy-nid! noddy!
Such a sweet little body,
Now curl in my lap,
And take a good nap,
Off to the land of noddy.

The Butterfly.

“Don’t be ’fraid, you butterfly,
Please stay till mamma first sees you,
You can go home by and bye,
Take a little nap first, please do.”

I love you, dear butterfly,

And I wish that I could kiss you,

But I’m ’fraid almost to try.

If you fly, mamma will miss you.

“Please be good till we get home,

Then I’ll give some candy to you

If mamma will give me some.

You don’t want to fly now, do you?”

Two Years Old.

What shall we give to our baby?
She is two years old to-day,
She has learned to sing and prattle,
To walk, to run, and to play;
To kiss “good-night” and “good-morning,”
To wave her hand to papa;
To look for the stars in heaven,
And the moon, “the stars’ mamma.”

What shall we bring to our baby,
Who has learned to be so wise?
Roses, pink as her cheeks are;
Blue ribbons to match her eyes;
A pin to fasten her frock with,
Set round with tiny pearls,
No whiter than her teeth are,
The gold like her burnished curls.

A book all full of pictures—
For she is a picture too,
With stories of dear little babies
Who have done as she will do;
And last of all, a dolly
Without a blemish or flaw,
As nearly as possible like her
As she is like her mamma.

Orphaned.

Sunshine of golden floods all the earth over,
Gold in the heart of the rose,
Bountiful blooms all the garden walls cover,
Gold on the buttercup shows,

Wealth on the swaying grass. What can be kinder,

Than blossoms all day to the bee?

Riches, and wealth, and fair gold for the finder,

But never a little for me.

Ev’rywhere children cling close to their mother,

Stars have their moon up above.

“Kiss me good-night,” whispers sister and brother,

“Good-night,” whispers dear mother-love.
Mother-bird folds her wings over, to cover
Little birds up in the tree,

Love it is—love—and sweet love the world over,

But never a little to me.

Rest for the bird, in her nest in the willow,
Rest for the butterfly’s wings,
So many tired heads find a heart-pillow,
So many sweet, restful things.
Fair little islands, all silent and lonely,
Rest in the arms of the sea,
I am so tired—why should it be only
That never comes rest unto me?

The Old Clock.

To-morrow! to-morrow! when will it be here?

When I asked mamma if it wasn’t real near,

She said, “When both hands on the clock point again

To twelve, why to-morrow will come to us then.”

This provoking old clock will not hurry a bit,

I cannot see what is the matter with it,

Perhaps ’tis so old that it has to go slow,

Forgets about Christmas, or else does not know.

I wonder if I were to help it along—

Poor old thing—if any one could think it wrong,

I know it will thank me for one little touch,

It must be so tired of ticking so much.

I think I must do it, if Santa Claus came
A little bit early, it would be a shame
To find no one ready; he might go away,

And never come back again, next Christmas Day.

Too Sure.

A little white Daisy grew by the road,
And it was September weather,
Near by in the grass, some Golden-rod showed,
With Asters clustered together.

“Dear me, just see,” the Golden-rod said,
“I do not think I remember,
A saucy Daisy to poke up its head,
Among us, blooms of September.”

“The impudent thing, her time is gone,”

Remarked a yellow-eyed Aster,

“I should think she would feel she is all alone,”

And a haughty look she cast her.

“Don’t you know,” said Golden-rod, “Daisy white,

You should not be seen this season,
Your time is in May and June. What right
Have you here? Just give us your reason.”

“Somebody might like me,” Daisy replied,
“I do not mean any harm, sir,
I wanted to grow, and tried, and tried,
Quite early, when it was warm, sir.”

“No matter,” said Aster, “leave her alone,
She’ll soon find herself mistaken,
Somebody will gather us every one,
And leave her there all forsaken.”

So the Asters flaunted, and Golden-rod
Turned its back on the Daisy,
And never so much as gave her a nod,
And whispered, “She must be crazy.”

But at last a maiden came one day,
Down by the proud, purple Aster,
Down by the Golden-rod nodding away,
And every heart beat faster.

But behold! she passed them carelessly by,

Saw only the Daisy blossom.

“You dear little thing!” they heard her cry,

And she put it in her bosom.

What’s in the Basket?

What’s in the basket? I wonder, I wonder,
Something peeps out like the silk of corn,
Silky and wavy; a straw hat under,
Why, now it moves, as sure as I’m born.

What’s in the basket? A chicken? A bunny?

No, two blue eyes look over the side,

Red lips are laughing, head looks so funny,

There! The something is trying to hide.

What’s in the basket? why, who would have thought it?

My little baby, with flaxen hair,
Hid in the basket, and home papa brought it,
High on his shoulder. Well! Well! I declare.

When the Winds are Blowing.

Roses red, and roses white,
Roses all a-growing,
Nodding to my baby bright,
When the winds are blowing.

Little ships upon the sea,
Going, coming, coming,
One will sail to you and me,
When the winds are blowing.

Little stars up in the sky,
Golden twinkles showing,
Clouds will hide them by and by,
When the winds are blowing.

Little ripples on the shore,
Inward ever flowing,
They will change to waves that roar,
When the winds are blowing.

Little baby on my breast,
Sorrow all unknowing,
May God always guard thy rest;
When the winds are blowing.

Supper.

The little birds are flying,
Each to its nesty home,
The light is growing fainter,
Come, little Cecil, come.
’Tis time to have your supper,
Sister Alice has it here,
She will feed you, little brother,
Then rock you, baby dear;
She will sing till you are sleepy,
Sing about all kinds of things,
Little boys, and cows, and horses,
And birdies with swift wings;
Of little boats a-sailing
Upon the great wide sea;
Of little dancing fairies,
As tiny as can be;
And then when little Cecil
Has drooped his curly head,
Gone off to visit Dreamland,
She will put him in his bed.

Shadows.

Dance shadows, dance to us, bow to us so;

Come as we come to you; go when we go;

Grow big and little; grow short and grow tall;

You shadows that live on the side of the wall.

Fly shadows, fly from us; fast as we run,
You cannot go from us while there is sun;
Bob up and down again; fall when we fall;

You shadows that live on the side of the wall.

Hide shadows, hide from us; sun’s in a cloud,

You will not play then, you’re growing too proud.

Ah! there you come out, first one, and then all;

You shadows that live on the side of the wall.

Play shadows, play with us, just as we say,
Mock if you will, you cannot run away,
We are quite sure you will come when we call;

You shadows that live on the side of the wall.

Shadows, good-bye to you, we’ll come again,

To-morrow, perhaps, if it does not rain,

There is no finding you, when rain-drops fall;

You shadows that live on the side of the wall.

The Chimney Bird.

Little flying chimney bird,

Do you live with soot and smoke?

I should think ’twould spoil your wings,

Blind your eyes, and make you choke.

You have queer taste, on my word,

Little, flying chimney bird.

Little black-capped chimney bird,
What a place to build a nest.
Good enough for bats, perhaps,
They are not so nicely dressed;
But for you, it is absurd,
Little black-capped chimney bird.

Little bright-eyed chimney bird,
Were I you, I’d take a tree,
Like the other birdies do;
Don’t you look so pert at me,
Just as if you hadn’t heard,
Little, saucy chimney bird.

Where is Milly?

Rose-time and daisy-time,
Both have come together.
O, the thrush and robin songs,
O, the golden weather,
Em’rald green upon the hills,
Deep green in the hollow;
Overhead a bird sings out,
Follow! Follow! Follow!

Butterflies, the wild rose hedge
Daintily dip over,
Yellow banded honey bees
Cling about the clover.
Flying birds and butterflies,—
But where has flown my Milly?
Tell me, little bright-eyed bird
That sings “Tu whilly-whilly!”

One sings from the wild rose hedge,
And bids me “Follow! Follow!”
One flies from the apple-tree,
“Tu whilly!” towards the hollow;
O, you birds, which one is right?
If I may find my Milly,
Shall I down the hollow go,
Or up the meadow hilly?

But down the hollow first I went,
And like a bird I found her,
Perched in a tree, with eglantine
Upspringing all around her.
And like a bird, she sang so sweet,
I think the blossoms missed her,
When I had led her home again,
And held her close, and kissed her.

Snow.

Snow! Snow! Snow!

On the ground, and in the air,

Over children. Do they care?

Do they mind it? Not a bit,

They are very glad of it.

How they laugh, and roll, and shout,

Snow-balls flying all about.

Oh! Oh! Oh!

Snow! Snow! Snow!

Snow! Snow! Snow!

Sleigh-bells jingle, “Boy behind!”

Driver laughing, he’ll not mind

If the boys do steal a ride.

Once a boy he. Ah, he’s spied

That small boy, who runs so fast,

He will get there too, at last.

Now, go, go,

Snow! Snow! Snow!

Snow! Snow! Snow!
What a lot of boys and girls,
Sparkling eyes, and dancing curls,
First one, then another flies
Down the hill, and each one cries
That his sled can beat them all.
Take care, little ones, don’t fall.
Such a show,
And snow! Snow!

Snow! Snow! Snow!
Somewhere underneath it all,
Through the winter, through the fall,
Little seeds are fast asleep,
Folded warm, and covered deep.
When they peep up all around,
From the moist, spring-swelling ground,
Then we know,
’Tis good-bye snow.

Bed Time.

The sunset yonder in the sunset sky,
Is bright and red as any robins breast,
There is no sign of bird or butterfly,
The bees have given up their honey quest,
The moon will soon be bringing out her light,
’Tis time for Goldenhead to say Good-night.

The sun has gone to bed, so tired he;
The birds, dear, do not want to sit up late.
I’m very sure, that ev’ry baby bee

Knows better than to say “Mamma, please wait.”

So, if the birds and bees do what is right,

My Goldenhead will surely say Good-night.

Transcriber’s Notes

1. Typographical errors were silently corrected.

2. (a) Contents list; (b) some contextual illustration captions, not appearing in the source publication, have been added and coded in italics by the transcriber for this eBook.

3. Respective illustrations are moved next to "Poem title".

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Table of Contents

- BONNY BAIRNS

- CONTENTS

- Dedication.

- A Story.

- What Baby is Like.

- TWO MAMMAS.

- Comfort.

- Down by the Garden Wall.

- Two Kittys.

- Hoops.

- My Lover.

- Say Please.

- Jumpity-Jump.

- The Butterfly.

- Two Years Old.

- Orphaned.

- The Old Clock.

- Too Sure.

- What’s in the Basket?

- When the Winds are Blowing.

- Supper.

- Shadows.

- The Chimney Bird.

- Where is Milly?

- Snow.

- Bed Time.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE