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!