A Child To His Sick Grandfather
Joanna Baillie
1762 to 1851
Track 1
Reconstruct the poem by dragging each line into its correct position. Your goal is to reassemble the original poem as accurately as possible. As you move the lines, you'll see whether your arrangement is correct, helping you explore the poem's flow and meaning. You can also print out the jumbled poem to cut up and reassemble in the classroom. Either way, take your time, enjoy the process, and discover how the poet's words come together to create something truly beautiful.
Easy Mode - Auto check enabled
And greedy cunning fox that stole
I'll sit and talk with you.
To sit beside you, Dad.
And aye be serving by your side;
And tell me how good children did;
We'll doff our shoes and softly tread;
Down on your bosom sinks your head:--
I'm vex'd to see you, Dad.
Your heavy eyes begin to wink;--
And when you wake we'll still be near,
Yet ne'ertheless I am right glad,
You do not hear me, Dad.
But now, I wot not how it be,
And then I have a wondrous tale
I'll lead you kindly by the hand:
And every body looks so sad,
When through the house you change your stand,
And when the weary fire burns blue,
And gossips come to ask for you;
By dead of midnight through a hole,
Which slyly to the hen-roost led,--
Your stiffened legs begin to fail:
How lank and thin your beard hangs down!
When you are ailing, Dad.
To fill old Dad his cheer.
And for your weal each neighbour cares;
While back to wall you lean so sad,
About a partlet and her brood,
Your brow is crossed with many streaks;
I have a tale both long and good,
When you are quiet and laid in bed,
Grand-dad , they say you're old and frail,
The housewives round their potions brew,
Supports your body bending low,
Scant are the white hairs on your crown:
With glittering swords,--you nod,--I think
And good men kneel and say their prayers,
Rouse up and be our Dad again.
Your staff, no more my pony now,
You used to smile and stroke my head,
Of men all clad in coats of mail,
You take me seldom on your knee,
But yet although his strength be fled,
How wan and hollow are your cheeks,
You love a story, Dad?
When dinner's set I'll with you bide,
You will not die and leave us then?
I love my own old Dad.