قراءة كتاب Fairy Realm: A Collection of the Favourite Old Tales Told in Verse
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Fairy Realm: A Collection of the Favourite Old Tales Told in Verse
directions,
In chaos, which the master of a house
Whose want of nous
Is such that he allows his wife a soirée,
Discovers round him, when tired out and sorry,
He fain would sleep, but cannot for the din doze—
In short, that plague, "a house turned out of windows."
No wonder the Princess, so meek and quiet,
Should run away from all the dust and riot.
No wonder, I repeat,
When all the suite,
From the Great Seal to her who made the beds,
Were hardly sure if they were on their heads,
Or on their feet!
No wonder the Princess—no soul aware,
Even of those who had her in their care—
Stole from her room, and up a winding stair,
Up to the highest turret's tipmost top,
Without or let or stop,
Went to enjoy the scenery and air!
In a room at the top of the tower that day
Merrily, merrily turned the wheel!
An old dame span, with never a stay,
Merrily, merrily turned the wheel!
The wool was as white as the driven snow,
Merrily, merrily turned the wheel!
And she sang, "Merrily, merrily, oh!
Merrily turn the wheel!"
Original Size -- Medium-Size
Merrily, merrily turned the wheel!—
"What bonny white wool, and what bonny white thread!"
Merrily, merrily turned the wheel!
"Come hither, then, fair one, and make the wheel go!"
Merrily, merrily turned the wheel!
Said ugly old Spite, who sang, "Merrily, oh!
Merrily turn the wheel!"
She turns the wheel and wakes its busy hum,
She twists the white wool with her whiter fingers;
She hears them call her, but she will not come:
Charmed with the toy, in that small room she lingers.
The wheel runs swiftly and the distaff's full,
She takes the spindle—heedless of who calls her.
Two tiny drops of blood fall on the wool,
And all that cruel Spite foretold befalls her!
On one and all
Did sudden slumber fall!
The steed that in the palace courtyard cropt—
The very bird upon the roof that hopt—
The cook who mincemeat for the banquet chopt—?
The gardener who the fruit tree's branches lopt—
The huntsman who his beaded forehead mopt—
The gay young lover who the question popt—
The damsel who thereat her eyelids dropt—
The councillor who fain the state had propt—
The King, his measures anxious to adopt—
The courtier in his new court suit be-fopt—
The toper who his beak in Rhenish sopt—
The scullion wiping up the sauce he slopt—
The chamberlain, as wise as ancient Copt—
The
