Yet another song of the
Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a youthful vocalist. I don't
know that it ever had a title, but we will call it "The North Wind".
The North wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the Robin do then, poor thing?
He will sit in the barn,
And keep himself warm,
With his little head under his wring, poor thing.
It is not claimed for
these pieces that they belong to any high order of verse-- though
really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very first. In point
of popularity alone, they are not surpassed by "Paradise Lost," nor by
the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then, they have so
thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the affections of the -wee
folks, that, with old and young; alike—for the young so soon grow into
the old, alas!—there are no compositions in the world better secured for
the honour and glory of immortal fame. They have not been very often
printed, I have said— not often in recent years, at least —and the
reason, I suppose, is because it was not deemed ]necessary to set out in
print what everybody knows so well by heart. It must be refreshing for
the eye, however, to scan what is so familiar to the ear, and I make no
apology - yea, I hope to be thanked for their appearance in this little
book for bairns and big folk. Let the next be...