IT'S extremely unusual, my mother declares,
For a burglar to sleep at the top of the stairs:
The policemen, she says, are so terribly sure
That daily the number of burglars gets fewer.
They are caught by the dozen as morning comes round
And dragged off to cells very deep underground:
And there they repent of their wicked bad lives,
With occasional visits from children and wives.
So every night when I lie in my bed,
I listen to hear the policeman's deep tread.
I've a whistle that hangs on a piece of white cord,
And it's much more consoling than any tin sword:
For I know, if I blow, the policeman will come
And make the old burglar look awfully glum.
I LOVE to lie in bed and hear
The jolly German band.
Why people do not care for it
I cannot understand.
They do not mind the orchestra.
And that makes far more noise;
They quite forget that music is
A thing that one enjoys.
When grown-up people come and call,
I have to play for them;
And once a deaf old lady said
My playing was a gem.
But it's not true for them to say
The Carnival de Venise[H]
With three wrong notes is better than
A band that plays with ease.
It comes each week at eight o'clock,
And when I hear it play,
I am a knight upon a horse
And riding far away.
The lines upon the blanket are
Six armies marching past,
Six armies marching on a plain,
Six armies marching fast.