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Frog Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Chorus of Frogs by Aunt Effie
  2. Frogs by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  3. Upon the Frog by John Bunyan
  4. The Tree Toad by John Brainard
  5. The Song of the Toad by John Burroughs
  6. The Tree-Frog Pedigree by John B. Tabb
  7. Frogs at Night by Madison Cawein
  8. The Toad by A.C. Benson
  9. Frog-Making by John B. Tabb
  10. The Frog by William Henry Dawson
  11. Five Little Speckled Frogs by Anonymous
  12. The Early Frogs by Harry Edward Mills

  1. The Chorus of Frogs

    by Aunt Effie

    I.
    "Yaup, yaup, yaup,"
    Said the croaking voice of a Frog;
    "A rainy day
    In the month of May,
    And plenty of room in the bog."

    II.
    "Yaup yaup yaup,"
    Said the Frog, as it hopped away;
    "The insects feed
    On the floating weed,
    And I'm hungry for dinner to-day

    III.
    "Yaup, yaup, yaup,"
    Said the Frog as it splashed about;
    "Good neighbours all,
    When you hear me call,
    It is odd that you do not come out."

    IV.
    "Yaup, yaup, yaup,"
    Said the Frogs; "it is charming weather;
    We'll come and sup
    When the moon is up,
    And we'll all of us croak together."

  2. Frogs

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    Here in the red heart of the sunset lying,
    My rest an islet of brown weeds blown dry,
    I watch the wide bright heavens, hovering nigh,
    My plain and pools in lucent splendour dyeing.
    My view dreams over the rosy wastes, descrying
    The reed-tops fret the solitary sky;
    And all the air is tremulous to the cry
    Of myriad frogs on mellow pipes replying.

    For the unrest of passion here is peace,
    And eve's cool drench for midday soil and taint.
    To tired ears how sweetly brings release
    This limpid babble from life's unstilled complaint;
    While under tired eyelids lapse and faint
    The noon's derisive visions—fade and cease.

  3. Upon the Frog

    by John Bunyan

    The frog by nature is both damp and cold,
    Her mouth is large, her belly much will hold;
    She sits somewhat ascending, loves to be
    Croaking in gardens, though unpleasantly.

    Comparison.

    The hypocrite is like unto this frog,
    As like as is the puppy to the dog.
    He is of nature cold, his mouth is wide
    To prate, and at true goodness to deride.
    He mounts his head as if he was above
    The world, when yet 'tis that which has his love.
    And though he seeks in churches for to croak,
    He neither loveth Jesus nor his yoke.

  4. The Tree Toad

    by John Brainard

    I am a jolly tree toad, upon a chestnut tree;
    I chirp, because I know that the night was made for me;
    The young bat flies above me, the glow-worm shines below,
    And the owlet sits to hear me, and half forgets his woe.

    I'm lighted by the fire-fly, in circles wheeling round;
    The caty-did is silent, and listens to the sound;
    The jack-o'-lantern leads the way-worn traveller astray,
    To hear the tree toad's melody until the break of day.

    The harvest moon hangs over me, and smiles upon the streams;
    The lights dance upward from the north, and cheer me with their beams;
    The dew of heaven, it comes to me as sweet as beauty's tear;
    The stars themselves shoot down to see what music we have here.

    The winds around me whisper to ev'ry flower that blows,
    To droop their heads, call in their sweets, and every leaf to close;
    The whip-poor-will sings to his mate the mellow melody:
    "O! hark, and hear the notes that flow from yonder chestnut tree."

    Ye caty-dids and whip-poor-wills, come listen to me now;
    I am a jolly tree toad upon a chestnut bough;
    I chirp because I know that the night was made for me —
    And I close my proposition with a Q. E. D.

  5. The Song of the Toad

    by John Burroughs

    Have you heard the blinking toad
    Sing his solo by the river
    When April nights are soft and warm,
    And spring is all a-quiver?
    If there are jewels in his head,
    His wits they often muddle,—
    His mate full often lays her eggs
    Into a drying puddle.

    The jewel's in his throat, I ween,
    And song in ample measure,
    For he can make the welkin ring,
    And do it at his leisure.
    At ease he sits upon the pool,
    And, void of fuss or trouble,
    Makes vesper music fit for kings
    From out an empty bubble:

    A long-drawn out and tolling cry,
    That drifts above the chorus
    Of shriller voices from the marsh
    That April nights send o'er us;
    A tender monotone of song
    With vernal longings blending,
    That rises from the ponds and pools,
    And seems at times unending;

    A linkéd chain of bubbling notes,
    When birds have ceased their calling,
    That lulls the ear with soothing sound
    Like voice of water falling.
    It is the knell of Winter dead;
    Good-by, his icy fetter.
    Blessings on thy warty head:
    No bird could do it better.

  6. The Tree-Frog Pedigree

    by John B. Tabb

    Our great ancestor, Polly Wog,
    With her cousin, Thaddeus Pole,
    Eloped from her home in an Irish bog,
    And crossing the sea on the "Mayflower's" log,
    At the risk of body and soul,
    Married a Frog; and thus, you see,
    How we come by a place in the family-tree
    And the family name, Tree-frog.

  7. Frogs at Night

    by Madison Cawein

    I heard the toads and frogs last night
    When snug in bed, and all was still;
    I lay and listened there until
    It seemed a church where one, with might,
    Was preaching high and very shrill:
    "The will of God!
    The will of God!"
    To which a voice, below the hill,
    Basso-profundo'd deep, "The will!"
    "The will of God!
    The will of God!"
    "The will! The will!"
    They croaked and chorused hoarse or shrill.

    It made me sleepy; sleepier
    Than any sermon ever heard:
    And so I turned upon my ear
    And went to-sleep and never stirred:
    But in my sleep I seemed to hear:
    "The word of God!
    The word of God!"
    Chanted and quavered, chirped and purred,
    To which one deep voice croaked, "The word!"
    "The word of God!
    The word of God!"
    "The word! The word!"
    And I slept on and never stirred.

  8. The Toad

    by A. C. Benson

    Old fellow-loiterer, whither wouldst thou go?
    The lonely eve is ours,
    When tides of richer fragrance ooze and flow
    From heavy-lidded flowers.

    With solemn hampered pace proceeding by
    The dewy garden-bed,
    Like some old priest in antique finery,
    Stiff cope and jewelled head;

    Thy sanctuary lamps are lit at dusk,
    Where leafy aisles are dim;
    The bat's shrill piccolo, the swinging musk
    Blend with the beetle's hymn.

    Aye something paramount and priestly too,
    Some cynic mystery,
    Lurks in the dull skin its dismal hue,
    The bright ascetic eye;

    Thou seem'st the heir of centuries, hatched out
    With aeons on thy track;
    The dust of ages compasses about
    Thy lean and shrivelled back.

    Thy heaving throat, thy sick repulsive glance
    Still awes thy foes around;
    The eager hound starts back and looks askance,
    And whining paws the ground.

    Yet thou hast forfeited thy ancient ban,
    Thy mystical control;
    We know thee now to be the friend of man,
    A simple homely soul;

    And when we deemed thee curiously wise,
    Still chewing venomed paste,
    Thou didst but crush the limbs of juicy flies
    With calm and critic taste.

    By the grey stone half sunk in mossy mould,
    Beside the stiff boxhedge,
    Thou slumberest, when the dawn with fingers
    Plucks at the low cloud's edge.

    O royal life! in some cool cave all day,
    Dreaming old dreams, to lie,
    Or peering up to see the larkspur sway
    Above thee in the sky;

    Or wandering when the sunset airs are cool
    Beside the elm-tree's foot,
    To splash and sink in some sequestered pool,
    Amid the cresses' root.

    Abhorred, despised, the sad wind o'er thee sings;
    Thou hast no friend to fear,
    Yet fashioned in the secret mint of things
    And hidden to be here.

    Man dreams of loveliness, and bids it be;
    To truth his eye is dim.
    Thou wert, because the spirit dreamed of thee,
    And thou art born of him.

  9. Frog-Making

    by John B. Tabb

    Said Frog papa to Frog mamma,
    "Where is our little daughter?"
    Said Frog mamma to Frog papa,
    "She's underneath the water."

    Then down the anxious father went,
    And there, indeed, he found her,
    A-tickling tadpoles, till they kicked
    Their tails off all around her.

  10. The Frog

    by William Henry Dawson

    Have you ever wished when fretting
    'Bout the chilly air of spring,
    When the days are longer getting
    And the frogs begin to sing,
    Have you ever wished that you could
    Just change places with the frog—
    Let him shoulder all your trouble
    And then leave you on the log,
    In the middle of the mill-pond,
    Nothing in the world to do?
    Have you wished you could change places,
    You be frog and frog be you?
    He don't fret 'bout rainy weather;
    If the sun shines he don't cry;
    He just takes it all together;
    Happy wet and happy dry.

  11. Five Little Speckled Frogs

    by Anonymous

    Five little speckled frogs
    Sat on a speckled log
    Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
    One jumped into the pool
    Where it was nice and cool
    Now there are Four green speckled frogs

    Four little speckled frogs
    Sat on a speckled log
    Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
    One jumped into the pool
    Where it was nice and cool
    Now there are Three green speckled frogs

    Three little speckled frogs
    Sat on a speckled log
    Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
    One jumped into the pool
    Where it was nice and cool
    Now there are Two green speckled frogs

    Two little speckled frogs
    Sat on a speckled log
    Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
    One jumped into the pool
    Where it was nice and cool
    Now there is one green speckled frog

    One little speckled frog
    Sat on a speckled log
    Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
    It jumped into the pool
    Where it was nice and cool
    Now there is no more speckled frogs

  12. The Early Frogs

    by Harry Edward Mills

    O, I love to hear the frogs
    When they first begin to sing;
    How they vocalize the bogs,
    And vociferate the Spring.
    How they carrol as they croak,
    How they mingle jest and joke
    With their solemn chant and dirge
    On the river's slimy verge.

    O, I love to hear the frogs,
    For their monotone uncouth
    Is the music of the cogs
    Of the mill wheel of my youth.
    And I listen half asleep,
    And the eyes of mem'ry peep
    Through the bars that hold me fast,
    From the pleasures of the past.

    O, I love to hear the frogs,
    For their melody is health
    To the heart that worry flogs
    With the lash of want or wealth.
    And the cares of life take wing,
    And its pleasures lose their sting,
    And love's channel way unclogs
    In the croaking of the frogs.