The Wood Mouse
D' ye know the little Wood-Mouse
That pretty little thing,
That sits among the forest leaves,
Beside the forest spring?
Its fur is red as the red chestnut,
And it is small and slim
It leads a life most innocent
Within the forest dim.
'T is a timid, gentle creature,
And seldom comes in sight
It has a long and wiry tail,
And eyes both black and bright.
It makes its nest of soft, dry moss,
In a hole so deep and strong
And there it sleeps secure and warm,
The dreary winter long.
And though it keeps no calendar,
It knows when flowers are springing
And waketh to its summer life
When Nightingales are singing.
Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits,
The Wood-Mouse plays below
And plenty of food it finds itself
Where the Beech and Chestnut grow.
In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits
When its Summer brood is fled,
And picks the berries from the bough
Of the Hawthorn over-head.
I saw a little Wood-Mouse once,
Like Oberon in his hall,
With the green, green moss beneath his feet,
Sit under a Mushroom tall.
I saw him sit and his dinner eat,
All under the forest tree
His dinner of Chestnut ripe and red,
And he ate it heartily.
I wish you could have seen him there;
It did my spirit good,
To see the small thing God had made
Thus eating in the wood.
I saw that He regardeth them
Those creatures weak and small
Their table in the wild is spread,
By Him who cares for all!