Last time we visited our Dear Friend Ti, she asked if I could try to mend her beautiful Norwegian cardigan which had worn through into a big hole on the sleeve. I said I would give it a go and we returned it today, all done. I darned the hole in the conventional manner and then added the decoration with some Swiss darning. I learned both skills from my Granny very many years ago!
The hole
Mended
We try to take a garden posy on each visit and today were able to make up a pretty little bunch.
We always enjoy reading poems when we visit and are always delighted when, as I start to read, Ti joins in with the next couple of lines.
The Fairies by William Allingham b1824
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watchdogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Another delightful poem today, that neither of us knew, was also one that Ti could join in on. It’s by Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton
Good Night and Good Morning
A fair little girl sat under a tree,
Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right,
And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”
Such a number of rooks came over her head,
Crying “Caw, caw!” on their way to bed.
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
“Little black things, good night, good night!”
The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,
The sheep’s “bleat, bleat!” came over the road;
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,
“Good little girl, good night, good night!”
She did not say to the sun, “Good night!”
Though she saw him there like a ball of light,
For she knew he had God’s time to keep
All over the world, and never could sleep.
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;
The violets curtsied and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
And while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
“Good morning, good morning! our work is begun.”
by Lord Houghton
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