#Americans #Women
Now the day is done, Now the shepherd sun Drives his white flocks from the s… Now the flowers rest On their mother’s breast,
He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low no pride. He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide. I am content with what I have,
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow… Starting on your autumn flight, Pause a moment at my window, Twitter softly your good-night; For the summer days are over,
From our happy home Through the world we roam One week in all the year, Making winter spring With the joy we bring,
Brighter shone the golden shadows; On the cool wind softly came The low, sweet tones of happy flow… Singing little Violet’s name. ‘Mong the green trees was it whisp…
‘In China there lived a little ma… His name was Chingery Wangery Ch… ‘His legs were short, his feet wer… And this little man could not walk… ‘Chingery changery ri co day,
Oh! a bare, brown rock Stood up in the sea, The waves at its feet Dancing merrily. A little bubble
‘Give me freshening breeze, my boy… A white and swelling sail, A ship that cuts the dashing waves… And weathers every gale. What life is like a sailor’s life,
Long ago in a poultry yard One dull November morn, Beneath a motherly soft wing A little goose was born. Who straightway peeped out of the…
The moonlight fades from flower an… And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung… And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping…
Thistledown in prison sings: Bright shines the summer sun, Soft is the summer air; Gayly the wood-birds sing, Flowers are blooming fair.
I am the monarch of the Sea, The ruler of the Queen’s Navee,— When at anchor here I ride, My bosom swells with pride, And I snap my fingers at a foeman…
‘Dear Grif, Here is a whiff Of beautiful spring flowers; The big red rose Is for your nose,
‘And if your Nancy frowns, my lad… And scorns a jacket blue, Just hoist your sails for other po… And find a maid more true.’
‘I wish I had a quiet tomb, Beside a little rill; Where birds, and bees, and butterf… Would sing upon the hill.’