Frederick George Scott (7 April 1861 – 19 January 1944 / Montreal)
A LITTLE sprite sat on a moonbeam,
When the night was waning away,
And over the world to the eastward
Spread the first faint flush of day.
The moonbeam was cold and slippery,
And a fat little fairy was he;
Around him the white clouds were sleeping,
And under him slumbered the sea.
Then the old moon looked out of her left eye,
And laughed when she thought of the fun,
For she knew that the moonbeam he sat on
Would soon melt away in the sun;
So she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders,
And winked at a bright little star—
The moon was remarkably knowing,
As old people always are.
"Great madam," then answered the fairy,
"No doubt you are wonderfully wise,
And know probably more than another
Of the ins and the outs of the skies.
But to think that we don't in our own way
An interest in sky-things take,
Is a common and fatal blunder
That sometimes you great ones make.
"For I've looked up from under the heather,
And watched you night after night,
And marked your silent motion,
And the fall of your silvery light.
I have seen you grow larger and larger,
I have watched you fade away;
I have seen you turn pale as a snowdrop
At the sudden approach of day.
"So don't think for a moment, great madam,
Tho' a poor little body I be,
That I haven't my senses about me,
Or am going to fall into the sea.
I have had what you only could give me—
A pleasant night ride in the sky;
But a new power arises to eastward,
So now, useless old lady, good-bye."
He whistled a low sweet whistle,
And up from the earth so dark,
With its wings bespangled with dewdrops,
There bounded a merry lark.
He's mounted the tiny singer,
And soared through the heavens away,
With his face all aglow in the morning,
And a song for the rising day.
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