



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive







MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS

BY MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY

Illustrated By Augustus Hoppin

Boston

Houghton, Mifflin And Company

1883

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INTRODUCTORY.


|Somewhere in that uncertain "long ago,"

Whose dim and vague chronology is all

That elfin tales or nursery fables know,

Rose a rare spirit,--keen, and quick, and quaint,--

          Whom by the title, whether fact or feint,

               Mythic or real, Mother Goose we call.



          Of Momus and Minerva sprang the birth

          That gave the laughing oracle to earth:

          A brimming bowl she bears, that, frothing

                    high

          With sparkling nonsense, seemeth non-

                    sense all;

          Till, the bright, floating syllabub blown by,

          Lo, in its ruby splendor doth upshine

          The crimson radiance of Olympian wine

               By Pallas poured, in Jove's own banquet-

                    hall.



          The world was but a baby when she came;

          So to her songs it listened, and her name

          Grew to a word of power, her voice a spell

          With charm to soothe its infant wearying

                    well.



          But, in a later and maturer age,

          Developed to a dignity more sage,

          Having its Shakspeares and its Words-

                    worths now,

          Its Southeys and its Tennysons, to wear

          A halo on the high and lordly brow,

          Or poet-laurels in the waving hair;

          Its Lowells, Whittiers, Longfellows, to sing

          Ballads of beauty, like the notes of spring,

          The wise and prudent ones to nursery use

          Leave the dear lyrics of old Mother Goose.



          Wisdom of babes,--the nursery Shak-

                    speare stilly--

          Cackles she ever with the same good-will:

          Uttering deep counsels in a foolish guise,

          That come as warnings, even to the wise;

          As when, of old, the martial city slept,

          Unconscious of the wily foe that crept

          Under the midnight, till the alarm was heard

          Out from the mouth of Rome's plebeian

                    bird.



          Full many a rare and subtile thing