Robert Louis Stevenson > A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods > Index to First Lines
Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894).  A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods.  1913.
Index to First Lines

A child should always say what’s true
A birdie with a yellow bill
All night long and every night
All round the house is the jet-black night
All the names I know from nurse
A lover of the moorland bare
A mile an’ a bittock, a mile or twa
A naked house, a naked moor
A picture-frame for you to fill
As from the house your mother sees
At evening when the lamp is lit
Birds all the sunny day
Bring the comb and play upon it!
Chief of our aunts—not only I
Children, you are very little
Come up here, O dusty feet!
Dark brown is the river
Dear Andrew, with the brindled hair
Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I gang
Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground
Down by a shining water well
Even in the bluest noonday of July
Every night my prayers I say
Far from the loud sea beaches
Far ’yont amang the years to be
Faster than fairies, faster than witches
Fate lies the wintry sun a-bed
For love of lovely words, and for the sake
For the long nights you lay awake
Frae nirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze
Friend, in my mountain-side demesne
From breakfast on through all the day
Go, little book, and wish to all
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Here all is sunny, and when the truant gull
How do you like to go up in a swing
I am a kind of farthing dip
If I have faltered more or less
If two may read aright
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me
In winter I get up at night
In ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt
In mony a foreign pairt I’ve been
In the other gardens
I read, dear friend, in your dear face
I saw you toss the kites on high
I should like to rise and go
I sit and wait a pair of oars
It is not yours, O mother, to complain
It is the season now to go
It is very nice to think
It’s an owercome sooth for age an’ youth
It’s rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod
It’s strange that God should fash to frame
I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day
Last, to the chamber where I lie
Late in the nicht in bed I lay
Little Indian, Sioux or Crow
My bonny man, the warld, it’s true
My bed is like a little boat
My body which my dungeon is
My house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves
My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky
Not yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert
Of a’ the ills that flesh can bear
Of speckled eggs the birdie sings
O it’s I that am the captain of a tidy little ship
O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I
O mother, lay your hand on my brow!
On the great streams the ships may go
Out of the sun, out of the blast
Over the borders, a sin without pardon
Peace and her huge invasion to these shores
Say not of me that weakly I declined
Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still
Smooth it slides upon its travel
Some day soon this rhyming volume
Summer fading, winter comes
The bed was made, the room was fit
The clinkum-clank o’ Sabbath bells
The coach is at the door at last
The friendly cow all red and white
The gardener does not love to talk
The gauger walked with willing foot
The lamps now glitter down the street
The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out
The Lord Himsel’ in former days
The moon has a face like the clock in the hall
The rain is raining all around
The red room with the giant bed
These nuts, that I keep in the back of the nest
The sun is not a-bed, when I
The unfathomable sea, and time, and tears
The world is so full of a number of things
The year runs through her phases; rain and sun
Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing
Through all the pleasant meadow-side
Under the wide and starry sky
Up into the cherry tree
We built a ship upon the stairs
We travelled in the print of olden wars
We see you as we see a face
Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’
What are you able to build with your blocks?
When aince Aprile has fairly come
When at home alone I sit
When children are playing alone on the green
Whenever Auntie moves around
Whenever the moon and stars are set
When I am grown to man’s estate
When I was down beside the sea
When I was sick and lay a-bed
When the bright lamp is carried in
When the golden day is done
When the grass was closely mown
Where the bells peal far at sea
Who comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain
With half a heart I wander here
Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember
Youth now flees on feathered foot
You too, my mother, read my rhymes



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