MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play, Prithee, let me be idle to-day. Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie Languidly under the bright blue sky. See, how slowly the streamlet glides; Look, how the violet roguishly hides; Even the butterfly rests on the rose, And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes. Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun, And the flies go about him one by one; And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace, Without ever thinking of washing her face. There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree, But very lazily flieth he, And he sits and twitters a gentle note, That scarcely ruffles his little throat. You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near, And the soft west wind is so light in its play, It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray. I wish, oh, I wish I was yonder cloud, That sails about with its misty shroud; Books and work I no more should see, And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee. |