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How do you like to go up in a swing,

Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it is the pleasantest thing

Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all

Over the countryside

Till I look down on the garden green

Down on the roof so brownUp in the air I go flying again, , Up in the air and down!

Robert Louis Stevenson


What does little birdie say,
In her nest at peep of day?

“Let me fly” says little birdie,
"Mother, let me fly away."

Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,

Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie,
"Let me rise and fly away.”

Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson


A child should always say what's true
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table:
At least as far as he is able.

Robert Louis Stevenson THE WIND

I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass-

O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid,
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all-

O wind, a-blowing all day long,
0 wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?

O wind, a-blowing all day long,
0 wind, that sings so loud a song!

Robert Louis Stevenson

Second Grade


My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrim's pride,
From every mountain side

Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee-
Land of the noble free-

Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills

Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song;
Eet mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break-

The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God, to thee,
Author of liberty,

To thee we sing:
Long may our land be bright
Witi freedom's holy light;
Protect us by thy might,
Great God, our King.

Samuel Francis Smith.

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In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

Robert Louis Stevenson


I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He has'nt got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward, you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Robert Louis Stevenson THE OWL AND THE PUSSY CAT

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the moon above,

And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!

How wonderful sweet you sing !
O let us be married,—too long we have tarried, -

But what shall we do for a ring ?”
They sailed away for a year and a day

To the land where the Bong tree grows And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring ?” Said the piggy, “I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day

By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined upon mince and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon,
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon

Edward Lear


Good little boys should never say

“I will,” and “Give me these”; 0, no! that never is the way,

But "Mother, if you please."

And “If you please,” to Sister Ann

Good boys to say are ready;
And, "Yes, sir," to a Gentleman,
And, “Yes, ma'am,” to a Lady.

Elizabeth Turner.


The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street

Comes stealing; comes creeping;
The poppies they hang from her head to her feet
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet-
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,

When she findeth you sleeping!

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum

"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;
There is one little dream of a big sugar plum,
And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
Of pop-guns that bang, and tip tops that hum,

And a trumpet that bloweth!

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams

With laughter and singing;
And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,
And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,
And up, up, where the Mother Moon beams,

The fairies go winging!

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and feet?

They'll come to you sleeping;
So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street,
With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
Comes stealing; comes creeping.

Eugene Field


There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven;
I've said my "seven times” over and over,

Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better,-

They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing

And shining so round and low;
You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing -

You are nothing now but a bow.

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