DREAM-LAND

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe— Sailed on a river of crystal light, Into a sea of dew. “Where are you going, and what do you wish?” The old moon asked the three. “We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!” Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea— “Now cast your nets wherever you wish— Never afeared are we”: So cried the stars to the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam— Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; ’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed As if it could not be, And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea— But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one’s trundle-bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum? And why do you weep, sitting here on your thumb? The soldiers are out, and the fifes we can hear; But where is the drum of the young grenadier? “My dear little drum it was stolen away Whilst I was asleep on a sunshiny day; It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee, And sheep and a shepherdess under a tree.” Shepherdess, shepherdess, where is your crook? And why is your little lamb over the brook? It bleats for its dam, and dog Tray is not by, So why do you stand with a tear in your eye? “My dear little crook it was stolen away Whilst I dreamt a dream on a morning in May; It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee, And a drum and a drummer-boy under a tree.”

“Awake, awake, my little boy! Thou wast thy mother’s only joy; Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? O wake! thy father doth thee keep. O what land is the land of dreams? What are its mountains and what are its streams?” “O father! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair.” “Dear child! I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the land of dreams, But, though calm and warm the waters wide I could not get to the other side.” “Father, O father! what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear? The land of dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.”

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. O hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

O Mother-My-Love, if you’ll give me your hand, And go where I ask you to wander, I will lead you away to a beautiful land— The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder. We’ll walk in a sweet-posy garden out there, Where moonlight and starlight are streaming, And the flowers and the birds are filling the air With the fragrance and music of dreaming. There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress, No questions or cares to perplex you; There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress, Nor patching of stockings to vex you. For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream, And sing you asleep when you’re weary, And no one shall know of our beautiful dream But you and your own little dearie. And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head In the bosom that’s sooth’d me so often, And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead A song which our dreaming shall soften. So Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand, And away through the starlight we’ll wander— Away through the mist to the beautiful land— The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder!