and the children of the alley, meet all,
beautifully, on common ground. And, how the out-door ones lie dormant
for spaces, and spring simultaneously into action in widely separated
parts--town and country alike--is a problem which may not be easily
solved. It seems to us that, like the songs of birds, they belong to
certain seasons, and are suggested, each in its turn, or class by class,
by the feeling in the air. But mark, I say only _seems_, for who may
dogmatize on such matters!

CHILDREN'S SONGS AND BALLADS.

Not the more exalted songs of child life here--not "Willie Winkie," and
"Cuddle Doon," and "Castles in the Air," and all that widely esteemed
band, which, collectively, would themselves tax the limits of a large
volume--but some of the ruder ditties only which the children for many
generations have delighted to sing, and been no less charmed by hearing
sung, and which of late have not been so frequently seen in print. These
rude old favourites, too, with slight comment--little being required.
And of such, surely "Cock Robin" may well be awarded the place of
honour--a song which, together with the more elaborate tale of "The
Babes in the Wood," has done more to make its pert and dapper
red-waistcoated subject the general favourite he is with old and young,
than any virtue that may be claimed for the little tyrant himself.

COCK ROBIN.

Who killed Cock Robin?
I, said the Sparrow,
With my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin.

Who saw him die?
I, said the Fly,
With my little eye,
I saw him die.

Who caught his blood?
I, said the Fish,
With my little dish,
I caught his blood.

Who'll make his shroud?
I, said the Beetle,
With my thread and needle,
I'll make his shroud.

Who'll carry him to his grave?
I, said the Kite,
If it's not in the night,
I'll carry him to his grave.

Who'll dig his grave?
I, said the Owl,
With my spade and shovel,
I'll dig his grave.

Who'll carry the link?
I, said the Linnet,
I'll fetch it in a minute,
I'll carry the link.

Who'll be chief mourner?
I, said the Dove,
I'll mourn for my love,
I'll be chief mourner.

Who'll sing the psalm?
I, said the Thrush,
As he sat on a bush,
I'll sing the psalm.

Who'll be the parson?
I, said the Rook,
With my little book,
I'll be the parson.

Who'll be the clerk?
I, said the L