class="i0">Great Britain's might.
Where they are laid
Their rest is made
As sweet as prayer
By music rare:
Over their head
The sleeping dead
Can daily hear
The anthem clear
Floating along
Like angel's song,
Until it dies
Like angel's sighs.
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Not far from the British Museum there stands
An apple stall, painted bright green,
Whence a penny may buy from the stall-keeper's hands
Three apples, all rosy and clean.
Now the girls of St. George's great Charity School
Very often are passing that way,
For their governors wise make this very good rule—
They must go for a walk every day.
How wistful the glances they cast as they pass,
How they long for an apple to eat;
But their pockets are quite without pennies, alas!
To purchase so dainty a treat.
These maidens have cheeks that are rosy and sweet
As the choicest of fruit on the stall,
And the very next time that we meet in this street,
I'll buy apples enough for them all.
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Goodness gracious! What a noise
Baby Bunting's bent on making;
It is quite enough to set
All the heads around him aching.
Still we're sure that Baby has
Many griefs if we could see 'em,
For with other babes he's come
Miles and miles to the Museum.
Baby Bunting thought, of course,
When he said good bye to mother,
That he'd pass in through the gates
With big sister and big brother.
But poor Baby finds, alas,
That his little hopes have flitted,
For the nasty notice says
"Babes in arms are not admitted."
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If you want to see all sorts of wonderful things,
Stuffed crocodiles, mammoths, and sloths,
Hairy ducks with four feet, and fishes with wings,
Fat beetles, and strange spotted moths;
And enormous winged bulls with long beards, carved in stone,
Dug up from Assyria's sand,
And old blackened mummies as dry as a bone,
Discovered in Egypt's lone land,
And beautiful statues from Greece and from Rome,
And other fine things without end,—
You will find you can see half the world here at home,
If a day in this place you will spend.
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Who is this in the Weighing Chair?
Why, little Dot, I do declare!
Three stone five! "So much as that?"
Calls out Miss Dot; "then I must be fat!"
On this and the opposite page you see
Dot's mother, and brother, and sisters three.
They wait for an underground train to come
And carry them swiftly back to their home.
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Wonderful trains! From morn till night,
Clattering through tunnels without daylight,
Hither and thither they run, up and down,
Beneath the streets of London Town.
Many prefer these trains instead
Of the cabs and "Busses" overhead,
For they run much faster than horses can.
Miss Dot's papa is a busy man,
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And goes to the City every day
By the "Underground,"—the quickest way:
And One Hundred Millions of people, 'tis found,
Are carried each year by the "Underground."
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