Rollicking Rhyme: 50 Fabulous Poems to Inspire Little Minds
Rollicking Rhyme
Fifty fabulous poems to inspire little minds
Rollicking Rhyme
Published April 2013 by Amanda Kennedy (www.glamumous.co.uk)
This volume contains media by various authors and artists which has been sourced from the public domain (where the copyright for this material has expired).
As such, the publisher has chosen to publish this volume under the CC0 License. This means you can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
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rol·lick·ing
/ˈrälikiNG/
Adjective
Exuberantly lively and amusing. “Good rollicking fun”
Table of Contents
Introduction
William Blake
The Tyger
Cradle Song
John Keats
A Poem About Myself
Heinrich Hoffman
The Story of Fidgety Phillip
The Story of Johnny Head in the Air
Emily Dickinson
A Light Exists in Spring
Edward Lear
An Alphabet
Charles and Mary Lamb
The First Tooth
Robert Louis Stevenson
Bed in Summer
The Land of Counterpane
At The Seaside
The Land of Nod
My Shadow
Mary Howitt
The Spider and the Fly
Hilaire Belloc
Introduction to The Bad Child’s Book of Beasts
The Vulture
Jim
Rebecca
Isaac Watts
Love Between Brothers and Sisters
Colley Cibber
The Blind Boy
Lewis Carrol
Jabberwocky
How Doth the Little Crocodile
You Are Old, Father William
A Boat, Beneath a Sunny Sky
Mary Hunter Austin
Rathers
William Brighty Rands
Topsy-Turvey World
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Arrow and the Song
There was a little girl
Edgar Allen Poe
The Raven
Christina Rosetti
The Rainbow
Colour
What are heavy
Flint
Kenneth Grahame
A Song of Toad
Jane and Ann Taylor
The Star
My Mother
Eugene Field
The Sugar Plum Tree
Abbie Farwell Brown
The Fisherman
Friends
George Macdonald
Baby
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Mountain and the Squirrel
Rudyard Kipling
Playing Robinson Crusoe
If—
Emily Brontë
Past, Present, Future
Clement Clarke Moore
A Visit from St. Nicholas
Anonymous Authors
Old Mother Hubbard
Ladybird Ladybird
Remember Remember the Fifth of November
The Days of the Month
Mr. Nobody
About this book
About the Editor
Index of first lines
Introduction
Children find poetry mesmerizing. Poems can make us laugh, make us wonder; it can tell imaginative stories or send powerful messages in a few words.
There are many hidden benefits of introducing children to poetry from an early age. Poetry's emphasis on the sound and rhythm of language helps build phonemic awareness (sensitivity to the smallest sounds of speech) which helps to develop the skills required for reading. Colourful use of language exposes children to a wider range of vocabulary and concepts which in turn helps children write more articulately.
Poetry celebrates the sound and rhythm of language and words in ways which narratives do not. Being shorter than most stories and books, poems provide morsels of literary goodness which to be enjoyed over and over, encouraging delight in the simple use of language in cases where dredging through pages of text are discouraging.
In this anthology, I've selected fifty of my favourite children's poems by many authors. These are verses I read alone and spoke aloud as a child; which I've shared with important people in my life and – most importantly – which I now share and enjoy with my own children.
Since children particularly enjoy poetry which they can relate to, I've chosen a variety of verse to suit many personalities and occasions. I hope you will enjoy sharing these classic poems with your own children to help inspire in them a love of the written word.
William Blake
William Blake (1757-1827) was a poet, artist and printmaker who was largely unrecognised during his lifetime. He is now considered an important figure in the history of the poetic and visual arts of the Romantic Age.
First published in 1794, his poem The Tyger has thrilled children and roused discussion among academics for over 200 years. It remains one of his most famous poems, whether considered an allegory for the French Revolution or simply a rhyme to delight.
Cradle Song was first published in 1789 in the anthology, Songs of Innocence and Experience; it is often interpreted as a lullaby meant to be sung by a mother to her child.
The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Cradle Song
Sweet dreams form a shade,
O'er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.
Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep sleep happy child,
All creation slept and smil'd.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep.
While o'er thee
thy mother weep
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee.
Thy maker lay and wept for me
Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,
Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are His own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.
John Keats
John Keats (1795-1821) was born in London, and from being a teenager was raised by a merchant after his parents died. Before his untimely death at the young age of 25, he had already established his reputation as a prominent Romantic poet.
Keats’ poem, A Song About Myself, was written for the pleasure of his 15 year old sister, Fanny. It is full of whimsical rhymes and jolly rhythms as the poet teases himself through playful language.
A Poem About Myself
I.
There was a naughty boy,
A naughty boy was he,
He would not stop at home,
He could not quiet be-
He took
In his knapsack
A book
Full of vowels
And a shirt
With some towels,
A slight cap
For night cap,
A hair brush,
Comb ditto,
New stockings
For old ones
Would split O!
This knapsack
Tight at's back
He rivetted close
And followed his nose
To the north,
To the north,
And follow'd his nose
To the north.
II.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
For nothing would he do
But scribble poetry-
He took
An ink stand
In his hand
And a pen
Big as ten
In the other,
And away
In a pother
He ran
To the mountains
And fountains
And ghostes
And postes
And witches
And ditches
And wrote
In his coat
When the weather
Was cool,
Fear of gout,
And without
When the weather
Was warm-
Och the charm
When we choose
To follow one's nose
To the north,
To the north,
To follow one's nose
To the north!
III.
There was a naughty boy
And a naughty boy was he,
He kept little fishes
In washing tubs three
In spite
Of the might
Of the maid
Nor afraid
Of his Granny-good-
He often would
Hurly burly
Get up early
And go
By hook or crook
To the brook
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above
The size
Of a nice
Little baby's
Little fingers-
O he made
'Twas his trade
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle-
A kettle
Of fish a pretty kettle
A kettle!
IV.
There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see-
There he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England-
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his
Shoes and he wonder'd.
Heinrich Hoffman
Heinrich Hoffmann (June 13, 1809 - September 20, 1894) was a German psychiatrist who authored a few short works, including Der Strewwelpeter: the anthology from which these two poems were translated.
The Story of the Fidgety Philip is about a boy who won't sit still at dinner; he accidentally knocks all of the food onto the floor, much to his parents' great displeasure. The Story of Johnny Head-in-Air concerns a boy who habitually fails to watch where he's walking. One day he walks into a river, and while he is soon rescued, his writing-book drifts away.
The anthology from which they are derived is a book of cautionary tales aimed at three to six year olds, and are incredibly tame compared to some of the more gruesome poems (such as The Story of Bad Frederick and The Dreadful Story of the Matches!).
The Story of Fidgety Phillip
"Let me see if Philip can
Be a little gentleman;
Let me see if he is able
To sit still for once at table:"
Thus Papa bade Phil behave;
And Mamma looked very grave.
But fidgety Phil,
He won't sit still;
He wriggles,
And giggles,
And then, I declare,
Swings backwards and forwards,
And tilts up his chair,
Just like any rocking-horse-
"Philip! I am getting cross!"
See the naughty, restless child
Growing still more rude and wild,
Till his chair falls over quite.
Philip screams with all his might,
Catches at the cloth, but then
That makes matters worse again.
Down upon the ground they fall,
Glasses, plates, knives, forks, and all.
How Mamma did fret and frown,
When she saw them tumbling down!
And Papa made such a face!
Philip is in sad disgrace.
Where is Philip, where is he?
Fairly covered up you see!
Cloth and all are lying on him;
He has pulled down all upon him.
What a terrible to-do!
Dishes, glasses, snapped in two!
Here a knife, and there a fork!
Philip, this is cruel work.
Table all so bare, and ah!
Poor Papa, and poor Mamma
Look quire cross, and wonder how
They shall have their dinner now.
The Story of Johnny Head in the Air
As he trudged along to school,
It was always Johnny's rule
To be looking at the sky
And the clouds that floated by;
But what just before him lay,
In his way,
Johnny never thought about;
So that everyone cried out,
"Look at little Johnny there,
Little Johnny Head-in-Air!"
/> Running just in Johnny's way
Came a little dog one day;
Johnny's eyes were still astray
Up on high,
In the sky;
And he never heard them cry
"Johnny, mind, the dog is nigh!"
Bump!
Dump!
Down they fell, with such a thump,
Dog and Johnny in a lump!
Once, with head as high as ever,
Johnny walked beside the river.
Johnny watched the swallows trying
Which was cleverest at flying.
Oh! what fun!
Johnny watched the bright round sun
Going in and coming out;
This was all he thought about.
So he strode on, only think!
To the river's very brink,
Where the bank was and steep,
And the water very deep;
And the fishes, in a row,
Stared to see him coming so.
One step more! oh! sad to tell!
Headlong in poor Johnny fell.
And the fishes, in dismay,
Wagged their tails and swam away.
There lay Johnny on his face,
With his nice red writing-case;
But, as they were passing by,
Two strong men had heard him cry;
And, with sticks, these two strong men
Hooked poor Johnny out again.
Oh! you should have seen him shiver
When they pulled him from the river.
He was in a sorry plight,
Dripping wet, and such a fright!
Wet all over, everywhere,
Clothes, and arms, and face, and hair:
Johnny never will forget
What it is to be so wet.
And the fishes, one, two, three,
Are come back again, you see;
Up they came the moment after,
To enjoy the fun and laughter.
Each popped out his little head,
And, to tease poor Johnny, said
"Silly little Johnny, look,
You have lost your writing-book!"
Emily Dickinson
Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts. Her family were successful with strong community ties, though she spent most of her life introverted and reclusive.
She was considered an eccentric among the locals, and was an unconventional poet for her time since her poems contained short lines and strange capitalisation.
Dickinson’s poem, A Light Exists in Spring tells us of the urgency and vitality presented by the seasonal light when it falls upon the landscape.