ONCE UPON A TIME
NOW, once upon a time, a nest of fairies
Was in a meadow 'neath a wild rose-
tree;
And, once upon a time, the violets clustered
So thick around it one could scarcely see;
And, once upon a time, a troop of children
Came dancing by upon the flowery ground;
And, once upon a time, the nest of fairies,
With shouts of joy and wonderment they
found;
And, once upon a time, the fairies fluttered
On purple winglets, shimmering in the sun;
And, once upon a time, the nest forsaking,
They flew off thro' the violets, every one;
And, once upon a time, the children followed
With loud halloos along the meadow green;
And, once upon a time, the fairies vanished,
And never more could one of them be seen;
And, once upon a time, the children sought
them
For many a day, but fruitless was their quest,
For, once upon a time, amid the violets,
They only found the fairies' empty nest.
THE SICK FAIRY
BREW some tea o' cowslips, make some
poppy-gruel,
Serve it in a buttercup—ah, 'tis very cruel,
That she is so ailing, pretty Violetta!
Locust, stop your violin, till she's feeling better.
ONCE UPON A TIME NOW, once upon a time, a nest of fairies Was in a meadow 'neath a wild rose- tree; And, once upon a time, the violets clustered So thick around it one could scarcely see; And, once upon a time, a troop of children Came dancing by upon the flowery ground; And, once upon a time, the nest of fairies, With shouts of joy and wonderment they found; And, once upon a time, the fairies fluttered On purple winglets, shimmering in the sun; And, once upon a time, the nest forsaking, They flew off thro' the violets, every one; And, once upon a time, the children followed With loud halloos along the meadow green; And, once upon a time, the fairies vanished, And never more could one of them be seen; And, once upon a time, the children sought them For many a day, but fruitless was their quest, For, once upon a time, amid the violets, They only found the fairies' empty nest.
THE SICK FAIRY BREW some tea o' cowslips, make some poppy-gruel, Serve it in a buttercup—ah, 'tis very cruel, That she is so ailing, pretty Violetta! Locust, stop your violin, till she's feeling better.