Songs for the Little Ones at Home (Google eBook)

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American Tract Society, 1852 - Children's songs - 288 pages
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Page 142 - You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." " Their graves are green, they may be seen,' The little Maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.
Page 58 - Little drops of water, Little grains of sand Make the mighty ocean, And the pleasant land.
Page 269 - Whence all but he had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form. The flames rolled on he would not go, Without his father's word ; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
Page 109 - In works of labour, or of skill, I would be busy too ; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.
Page 271 - While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound, The boy ! oh, where was he ? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part ; But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young faithful heart ! THOMAS...
Page 167 - WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 1. WHAT is that, mother ? The lark, my child. The morn has but just looked out and smiled, When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 2. What is that, mother ? The dove, my son.
Page 218 - Anouiro the throne of God in heaven, Thousands of children stand ; Children whose sins are all forgiven, A holy, happy band. Singing glory, glory, Glory be to God on high.
Page 271 - The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.
Page 141 - And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea; "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.
Page 265 - Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.

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