Now We Are Six

King John was not a good man ---
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
for days and days and days
And men who came across him
when walking in the town
Gave him a supercilious stare,
or passed with noses in the air
And bad King John stood dumbly there
blushing beneath his crown

King John was not a good man
and no good friends had he
He stayed in every afternoon,
but no one came to tea
And, round about December,
the cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer
and fortune in the coming year
Were never from his near and dear,
but only from himself

King John was not a good man,
he lived his life aloof
Alone he thought a message out
while climbing up the roof
He wrote it down and propped it
against the chimney stack
“TO ALL AND SUNDRY, NEAR AND FAR,
F. CHRISTMAS IN PATICULAR.”
And signed it not “Johannes R.”
But very humbly, “Jack.”

“I want some crackers, and I want some candy;
I think a box of chocolates would come in handy;
I don’t mind oranges, I do like nuts!
And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife that really cuts
And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all.
Bring me a big, red, india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man.
He wrote this message out,
And gat him to his room again,
descending by the spout
And all that night he lay there,
a prey to hopes and fears
“I think that’s him a-coming now”
(Anxiety bedewed his brow)
“He’ll bring one present, anyhow --
the first I’ve had for years.”

King John was not a good man.
Next morning when the sun
Rose up to tell a waiting world
that Christmas had begun
And people seized their stockings
and opened them with glee
And crackers, toys and games appeared
and lips with sticky sweets were smeared,
King John said grimly: ”As I feared,
“Nothing again for me!”

“I did want crackers, and I did want candy;
I know a box of chocolates would come in handy;
I do love oranges, I did want nuts
I haven’t got a pocket-knife - not one that cuts
And, oh! If Father Christmas had loved me at all,
He would have brought a big, red, india-rubber ball!”

King John stood bt the window,
and frowned to see below
The happy bands of boys and girls
all playing in the snow
A while he stood there watching
and envying them all
When through the window big and red
there hurtled by his royal head
And bounced and fell upon the bed,
an india-rubber ball!

AND. OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS, MY BLESSING ON YOU FALL
FOR BRINGING HIM A BIG, RED, INDIA-RUBBER BALL!

I think I am a Muffin Man. I haven’t got a bell,
I haven’t got the muffin things
that muffin people sell.
Perhaps I am a Postman. No, I think I am a Tram.
I’m feeling rather funny
and I don’t know what I am －

But round about and round about
and round about I go －
All around the table, the table in the nursery －
Round about and round about
and round about I go;

I think I am a Traveller escaping from a Bear;
I think I am an Elephant, behind another Elephant
Behind another Elephant who isn’t really there.

So round about and round about
and round about and round about
Oh oh and round about and round about I go.

I think I am a Ticket Man
who’s selling tickets － please,
I think I am a Doctor who is visiting a Sneeze;
Perhaps I’m just a Nanny who is walking with a pram
I’m feeling rather funny
and I don’t know what I am －

But round about and round about
and round about I go －
All around the table, the table in the nursery －
Round about and round about
and round about I go;

I think I am a Puppy, so I’m hanging out my tongue;
I think I am a Camel who is looking for a Camel
Who is looking for a Camel
who is looking for its Young….

So round about and round about
and round about and round about
Oh oh and round about and round about I go.

Of all the Knights in Appledore,
the wisest was Sir Thomas Tom
He multiplied as far as four,
and knew what nine was taken from
To make eleven. He could write
a letter to another Knight

No other Knight in all the land
could do the things which he could do
Not only did he understand
the way to polish swords but knew
What remedy a Knight should seek
whose armour had begun to squeak

And if he didn’t fight too much,
it wasn’t that he did not care
For blips and buffetings and such,
but felt that it was hardly fair
To risk, by frequent injuries,
a brain as delicate as his

One day when good Sir Thomas Tom
was resting in a handy ditch
The noises he was hiding from,
though very much the noises which
He’d always hidden from before,
seemed somehow less…Or was it more?

The trotting horse, the trumpet’s blast,
the whistling sword, the armour’s squeak
These, and especially the last,
had clattered by him all the week
Was this the same, or was it not?
Something was different. But what?

Sir Thomas raised a cautious ear
and listened as Sir Hugh went by
And suddenly he seemed to hear
(Or not to hear) the reason why
This stranger made a nicer sound
than other Knights who lived around

Sir Thomas watched the way he went,
his rage was such he couldn’t speak
For years they’ called him down in Kent
the Knight Whose Armour Didn’t Squeak
Yet here and now he looked upon
another Knight whose squeak had gone

Sir Hugh was singing, hand on hip,
when something sudden came along
And caught him a terrific blip
right in the middle of his song
“A thunderstorm!” he thought. “Of course!”
And toppled gently off his horse

Then said the good Sir Thomas Tom,
dismounting with a friendly air
“Allow me to extract you from
the heavy armour that you wear
At times like these the bravest Knight
may find his armour much too tight.”

A hundred yards or so beyond
the scene of brave Sir Hugh’s defeat
Sir Thomas found a useful pond
and careful not to wet his feet
He brought the armour to the brink
and flung it in … and watched it sink

So ever after, more and more,
the men of Kent would proudly speak
Of Thomas Tom of Appledore,
“The Knight Whose Armour Didn’t Squeak”
Whilst Hugh, the Knight who gave him best
squeak just as badly as the rest

What has she got in that little brown head?
Wonderful thoughts which can never be said
What has she got in that firm little fist of hers?
Somebody’s thumb and it feels like Christopher’s

There’s sun on the river and sun on the hill
You can hear the sea if you stand quite still
There’s eight new puppies at Roundabout Farm
And I saw an old sailor with only one arm!

But everyone says, ”Run along!”
Run along, run along!
All of them say, “Run along! I’m busy as can be,”
Everyone says, “Run along, there’s a little darling!”
If I’m a little darling, why don’t they run with me?

There’s wind on the river and wind on the hill
There’s a dark dead water-wheel under the mill!
I saw a fly which had just been drowned
And I know where a rabbit goes into the ground!

But everyone says, ”Run along!”
Run along, run along!
All of them say, “Yes, dear,” and never notice me
Everyone says, “Run along, there’s a little darling!”
If I’m a little darling, why won’t they come and see?

These are my two drops of rain
Waiting on the window pane.
I am waiting here to see
Which the winning one will be.

Both of them have different names.
One is John and one is James.
All the best and all the worst
Comes from which of them is first.

James has just begun to ooze.
He’s the one I want to lose.

John is waiting to begin.
He’s the one I want to win.
James is going slowly on.
Something sort of sticks to John.
John is moving off at last.
James is going pretty fast.
John is rushing down the pane.
James is going slow again.

James has met a sort of smear.
John is getting very near.

Mm mm mm
Is he going fast enough?
(James has found a piece of fluff.)

Mm mm mm
John has hurried quickly by.
(James was talking to a fly.)

John is there, and John has won!
Look! I told you! Here’s the sun!

No one can tell me
Nobody knows
Where the wind comes from
Where the wind goes

It’s flying from somewhere
As fast as it can
I couldn’t keep up with it
Not if I ran

But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite
It would blo with the wind
For a day and a night

And then when I found it
Wherever it blew
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too

So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes. . .
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows

Some think that John boy is lost in the wood,
Some say he couldn’t be, some say he could.
Some think that John boy hides on the hill;
Some say he won’t come back, some say he will.

High was the sun, when John went away…
Here they’ve been waiting all through the day;
Big Bears and Little Bears, White Kings and Black
All of them waiting till John comes back

Lords of the Nursery looked down the hill,
Some saw the sheep-fold, some saw the mill;
Some saw the roofs of the little grey town…
And their shadows grew long as the sun slipt down

Lords of the Nursery their still watch keep
They hear from the sheep-fold the rustle of sheep.
A young bird twitters and hides its head
A little wind suddenly breathes, and is dead

Slowly and slowly dawns the new day…
What’s become of John boy? No one can say.
Some think that John boy is lost on the hill;
Some say he won’t come back, some say he will

What’s become of John boy? Nothing at all,
He played with his skipping rope,
He played with his ball.
He ran after butterflies, blue ones and red;
He did a hundred happy things and then went to bed.