PREFACE.

Thank you, pretty cow, that made

Pleasant milk to soak my bread,

Ev’ry day, and ev’ry night,

Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank,

Growing on the weedy bank;

But the yellow cowslips eat,

They will make it very sweet.

Where the purple violet grows,

Where the bubbling water flows,

Where the grass is fresh and fine,

Pretty cow, go there and dine.

Baby, baby, lay your head

On your pretty cradle-bed;

Shut your eye-peeps, now the day

And the light are gone away;

All the clothes are tuck’d in tight;

Little baby dear, good night.

Yes, my darling, well I know

How the bitter wind doth blow;

And the winter’s snow and rain,

Patter on the window-pane;

But they cannot come in here,

To my little baby dear.

For the curtains warm are spread

Round about her cradle-bed;

And her little nightcap hides

Ev’ry breath of air besides:

So, till morning shineth bright,

Little baby dear, good night.

Baby, baby, ope your eye,

For the sun is in the sky,

And he’s peeping once again

Through the frosty window-pane;

Little baby, do not keep

Any longer fast asleep.

There now, sit in mother’s lap,

That she may untie your cap:

For the little strings have got

Twisted into such a knot:

Ah! for shame, you’ve been at play

With the bobbin, as you lay.

There it comes, now let us see

Where your petticoats can be:

Oh! they’re in the window-seat,

Folded very smooth and neat:

When my baby older grows,

She shall double up her clothes.

Now one pretty little kiss,

For dressing you so nice as this;

And, before we go down stairs,

Don’t forget to say your pray’rs;

For ’tis God who loves to keep

Little babies while they sleep.

What a little thing am I!

  Hardly higher than the table;

I can eat, and play, and cry,

  But to work I am not able.

Nothing in the world I know,

  But mamma will try and show me:

Sweet mamma, I love her so,

  She’s so very kind unto me.

And she sets me on her knee

  Very often, for some kisses:

Oh! how good I’ll try to be.

  For such a dear mamma as this is.

Hop about, pretty sparrows, and pick up the hay,

  And the twigs, and the wool, and the moss;

Indeed, I’ll stand far enough out of your way,

  Don’t fly from the window so cross.

I don’t mean to catch you, you dear little Dick,

  And fasten you up in a cage;

To hop all day long on a straight bit of stick,

  Or to flutter about in a rage.

I only just want to stand by you and see

  How you gather the twigs for your house;

Or sit at the foot of the jenneting tree,

  While you twitter a song in the boughs.

Oh dear, if you’d eat a crumb out of my hand,

  How happy and glad I should be!

Then come, pretty bird, while I quietly stand

  At the foot of the jenneting tree.

Love, come and sit upon my knee,

And give me kisses, one, two, three,

And tell me whether you love me,

                                My baby.

For this I’m sure, that I love you,

And many, many things I do,

And all day long I sit and sew

                                For baby.

And then at night I lie awake,

Thinking of things that I can make,

And trouble that I mean to take

                                For baby.

And when you’re good and do not cry,

Nor into wicked passions fly,

You can’t think how papa and I

                                Love baby.

But if my little girl should grow

To be a naughty child, I know

’Twould grieve mamma to serve her so,

                                My baby.

And when you saw me pale and thin,

By grieving for my baby’s sin,

I think you’d wish that you had been

                            A better baby.

Come, my darling, come away,

Take a pretty walk to-day;

Run along, and never fear,

I’ll take care of baby dear:

Up and down with little feet,

That’s the way to walk, my sweet.

Now it is so very near,

Soon she’ll get to mother dear.

There she comes along at last:

Here’s my finger, hold it fast;

Now one pretty little kiss,

After such a walk as this.

Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss

  Your little sister dear;

I must not have such things as this,

  Nor noisy quarrels here.

What! little children scold and fight,

  That ought to be so mild;

O! Mary, ’tis a shocking sight

  To see an angry child.

I can’t imagine, for my part,

  The reason of your folly,

As if she did you any hurt

  By playing with your dolly.

See, how the little tears do run

  Fast from her wat’ry eye:

Come, my sweet innocent, have done,

  ’Twill do no good to cry.

Go, Mary, wipe her tears away,

  And make it up with kisses;

And never turn a pretty play

  To such a pet as this is.

There, go to sleep, Dolly, in own mother’s lap;

I’ve put on your night-gown and neat little cap;

So sleep, pretty baby, and shut up your eye,

Bye bye, little Dolly, lie still, and bye bye.

I’ll lay my clean handkerchief over your head,

And then make believe that my lap is your bed;

So hush, little dear, and be sure you don’t cry:

Bye bye, little Dolly, lie still, and bye bye.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,

When he nothing shines upon,

Then you show your little light,

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the trav’ller in the dark,

Thanks you for your tiny spark:

He could not see which way to go,

If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,

And often through my curtains peep,

For you never shut your eye

Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark

Lights the trav’ller in the dark,

Though I know not what you are,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Little sister, come away,

And let us in the garden play,

For it is a pleasant day.

On the grass-plat let us sit,

Or, if you please, we’ll play a bit.

And run about all over it.

But the fruit we will not pick,

For that would be a naughty trick,

And, very likely, make us sick.

Nor will we pluck the pretty flow’rs

That grow about the beds and bow’rs,

Because, you know, they are not ours.

We’ll pluck the daisies white and red,

Because mamma has often said,

That we may gather them instead.

And much I hope we always may

Our very dear mamma obey,

And mind whatever she may say.

Here’s a pretty gay book, full of verses to sing,

But Lucy can’t read it; oh! what a sad thing!

And such funny stories—and pictures too—look!

I am glad I can read such a beautiful book.

But come, little Lucy, now what do you say,

Shall I begin teaching you pretty great A?

And then all the letters that stand in a row,

That you may be able to read it, you know?

A great many children have no good mamma,

To teach them to read, and poor children they are;

But Lucy shall learn all her letters to tell,

And I hope by and by she will read very well.

No, naughty Growler, get away,

  You shall not have a bit;

Now, when I speak, how dare you stay?

I can’t spare any, Sir, I say,

  And so you need not sit.

Poor Growler! do not make him go,

  But recollect, before,

That he has never served you so,

For you have giv’n him many a blow,

  That patiently he bore.

Poor Growler, if he could but speak,

  He’d tell (as well he might)

How he would bear with many a freak,

And wag his tail, and look so meek,

  And neither bark nor bite.

Upon his back he lets you ride,

  And drive about the yard:

And now, while sitting by your side,

To have a bit of bread denied,

  Is really very hard.

And all your little tricks he’ll bear,

  And never seem to mind;

And yet you say you cannot spare

One bit of breakfast for his share,

  Although he is so kind.

When I go in the meadows, or walk in the street,

Very often a many poor children I meet,

Without shoes or stockings to cover their feet.

Their clothes are all ragged, and let in the cold;

And they have very little to eat, I am told:

Oh dear! ’tis a pitiful sight to behold.

And then, what is worse, very often they are

Quite naughty and wicked: I never can bear

To hear how they quarrel together and swear.

For often they use naughty words in their play;

And I might have been quite as wicked as they,

Had I not been taught better, I’ve heard mamma say.

Oh, how very thankful I always should be,

That I have kind parents to watch over me,

Who teach me from wickedness ever to flee!

And as mamma tells me, I certainly should

Mind all that is taught me, and be very good,

For if those poor children knew better—they would.

Come, here are a slate, and a pencil, and string,

So now sit you down, dear, and draw pretty thing;

A man, and a cow, and a horse, and a tree,

And when you have finish’d, pray show them to me.

What! cannot you do it? Shall I show you how?

Come, give me your pencil, I’ll draw you a cow.

You’ve made the poor creature look very forlorn!

She has but three legs, dear, and only one horn.

Now look, I have drawn you a beautiful cow;

And see, here’s a dicky-bird, perch’d on a bough,

And here are some more flying down from above:

There now, is not that very pretty, my love?

O yes, very pretty! now make me some more,

A house with a gate, and a window, and door,

And a little boy flying his kite with a string:

Oh, thank you, mamma, now I’ll draw pretty thing.

Come here to papa, and I’ll tell my dear boy,

  (For I think he would never have guess’d,)

How many poor animals we must employ,

  Before little Charles can be dress’d.

The pretty sheep gives you the wool from his sides,

  To make you a jacket to use:

And the dog or the seal must be stript of their hides,

  To give you a couple of shoes.

And then the grey rabbit contributes his share:

  He helps to provide you a hat;

For this must be made of his delicate hair,

  And so you may thank him for that.

And many poor animals suffer besides,

  And each of them give us a share,

Pull off their warm clothing, or give us their hides,

  That we may have plenty to wear.

Then as the poor creatures are suffer’d to give

  So much for the comfort of man,

I think ’tis but right, that, as long as they live,

  We should do all for them that we can.

What is it that makes little Harriet cry?

Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye:

There—lay down your head on my bosom—that’s right,

And now tell mamma what’s the matter to-night.

What! baby is sleepy and tired with play?

Come, Betty, make haste, then, and fetch her away;

But do not be fretful, my darling, because

Mamma cannot love little girls that are cross.

She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there.

Ah! here’s her sweet smile come again, I declare:

That’s right, for I thought you quite naughty before:

Good night, my dear girl, but don’t fret any more.

The cow has a horn, and the fish has a gill;

The horse has a hoof, and the duck has a bill;

The bird has a wing, that on high he may sail;

And the lion a mane, and the monkey a tail;

And they swim, or they fly, or they walk, or they eat,

With fin, or with wing, or with bill, or with feet.

And Charles has two hands, with five fingers to each,

On purpose to work with, to hold and to reach;

No birds, beasts, or fishes, for work or for play,

Have any thing half so convenient as they:

But if he don’t use them, and keep them in use,

He’d better have had but two legs, like a goose.

Here’s my baby’s bread and milk,

For her lip as soft as silk;

Here’s the basin clean and neat,

Here’s the spoon of silver sweet,

Here’s the stool, and here’s the chair,

For my little lady fair.

No, you must not spill it out,

And drop the bread and milk about;

But let it stand before you flat,

And pray remember pussy-cat:

Poor old pussy-cat, that purrs

All so patiently for hers.

True, she runs about the house,

Catching, now and then, a mouse;

But, though she thinks it very nice,

That only makes a tiny slice:

So don’t forget that you should stop,

And leave poor puss a little drop.

Pretty flower, tell me why

  All your leaves do open wide,

Every morning, when on high

  The noble sun begins to ride.

This is why, my lady fair,

  If you would the reason know,

For betimes the pleasant air

  Very cheerfully doth blow.

And the birds on every tree,

  Sing a merry, merry tune,

And the busy honey-bee

  Comes to suck my sugar soon.

This is all the reason why

  I my little leaves undo:

Lady, lady, wake and try

  If I have not told you true.

Dance, little baby, dance up high:

Never mind, baby, mother is by;

Crow and caper, caper and crow,

There, little baby, there you go;

Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,

Backwards and forwards, round and round:

Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing,

With the merry gay coral, ding, ding-a-ding, ding.

What! cry when I wash you, not love to be clean!

There, go and be dirty, unfit to be seen:

And till you leave off, and I see you have smiled,

I’ll not take the trouble to wash such a child.

Suppose I should leave you now, just as you are,

Do you think you’d deserve a sweet kiss from papa,

Or to sit on his knee and learn pretty great A,

With fingers that have not been wash’d all the day?

Ay, look at your fingers, you see it is so:

Did you ever behold such a black little row?

And for once you may look at yourself in the glass:

There’s a face, to belong to a good little lass!

Come, come then, I see you’re beginning to clear,

You won’t be so foolish again, will you, dear?

Well, what’s the matter? there’s a face!

  What! has it cut a vein?

And is it quite a shocking place?

  Come, let us look again.

I see it bleeds, but never mind

  That tiny little drop;

I don’t believe you’ll ever find

  That crying makes it stop.

’Tis sad indeed to cry at pain,

  For any but a baby;

If that should chance to cut a vein,

  We should not wonder, may be.

But such a man as you should try

  To bear a little sorrow:

So run about and wipe your eye,

  ’Twill all be well to-morrow.

I don’t know my letters, and what shall I do?

For I’ve got a nice book, but I can’t read it through!

O dear, how I wish that my letters I knew!

I think I had better begin them to-day,

For ’tis like a dunce to be always at play?

Mamma, will you teach little baby great A?

And then, B and C, as they stand in the row,

One after another, as far as they go,

For then I can read my new story, you know.

So pray, mamma, teach me at once, and you’ll see

What a very good child little baby will be,

To try and remember her A, B, C, D.

Who show’d the little ant the way

  Her narrow hole to bore,

And spend the pleasant summer day,

  In laying up her store?

The sparrow builds her clever nest,

  Of wool, and hay, and moss;

Who told her how to weave it best,

  And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly

  Among the sweetest flow’rs,

And lay his store of honey by,

  To eat in winter hours?

’Twas God who show’d them all the way,

  And gave their little skill,

And teaches children, if they pray,

  To do his holy will.

I’ve seen a little girl, mamma,

That had got such a dreadful scar,

All down her arms, and neck, and face,

I could not bear to see the place.

Poor little girl, and don’t you know

The shocking trick that made her so?

’Twas all because she went and did

A thing her mother had forbid.

For once, when nobody was by her,

This silly child would play with fire;

And long before her mother came,

Her pinafore was all on flame.

In vain she tried to put it out,

Till all her clothes were burnt about,

And then she suffer’d ten times more,

All over with a dreadful sore.

For many months before ’twas cured

Most shocking torments she endured;

And even now, when passing by her,

You see what ’tis to play with fire.

I’m a pretty little thing,

Always coming with the spring;

In the meadows green I’m found,

Peeping just above the ground.

And my stalk is cover’d flat,

With a white and yellow hat.

Little lady, when you pass

Lightly o’er the tender grass,

Skip about, but do not tread

On my meek and healthy head.

For I always seem to say,

“Surly Winter’s gone away.”

I am very pale and dim,

With my faint and bluish rim,

Standing on my narrow stalk,

By the litter’d gravel walk,

And the wither’d leaves aloft,

Fall upon me very oft.

There was a poor widow, who lived in a cot,

She scarcely a blanket to warm her had got,

Her windows were broken, her walls were all bare,

And the cold winter-wind often whistled in there.

Poor Susan was old, and too feeble to spin,

Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin;

And she must have starved, as so many have done,

If she had not been bless’d with a good little son.

But he loved her well, like a dutiful lad;

He thought her the very best friend that he had;

And now to neglect or forsake her, he knew,

Was the most wicked thing he could possibly do.

For he was quite healthy, and active, and stout,

While his poor mother hardly could hobble about,

And he thought it his duty and greatest delight,

To work for her living from morning to night.

So he went ev’ry morning, as gay as a lark,

And work’d all day long in the fields till ’twas dark,

Then came home again to his dear mother’s cot,

And joyfully gave her the wages he got.

And oh, how she loved him! how great was her joy!

To think her dear Jem was a dutiful boy:

Her arm round his neck she would tenderly cast,

And kiss his red cheek, while the tears trickled fast.

Oh, then, was not little Jem happier far,

Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are?

For, as long as he lived, ’twas his comfort and joy,

To think he’d not been an undutiful boy.

It is such a beautiful day,

  And the sun shines so bright and so warm,

That the little ants, busy and gay,

  Are come from their holes in a swarm.

All the winter together they sleep,

  Or in underground passages run.

Not one of them daring to peep,

  To see the bright face of the sun.

But the snow is now melted away,

  And the trees are all cover’d with green;

And the little ants, busy and gay,

  Creeping out from their houses are seen.

They’ve left us no room to go by,

  So we’ll step aside on to the grass,

For a hundred poor insects might die.

  Under your little feet as they pass.

I do not like to go to bed,

Sleepy little Harry said,

So, naughty Betty, go away,

I will not come at all, I say.

Oh, what a silly little fellow!

I should be quite ashamed to tell her;

Then, Betty, you must come and carry

This very foolish little Harry.

The little birds are better taught,

They go to roosting when they ought;

And all the ducks and fowls, you know,

They went to bed an hour ago.

The little beggar in the street,

Who wanders with his naked feet,

And has not where to lay his head,

Oh, he’d be glad to go to bed.

Down upon my pillow warm,

  I do lay my little head,

And the rain, and wind, and storm,

  Cannot come a-nigh my bed.

Many little children poor,

  Have not any where to go,

And sad hardships they endure,

  Such as I did never know.

Dear mamma, I’ll thank you oft,

  For this comfortable bed,

And this pretty pillow soft,

  Where I rest my little head.

I shall sleep till morning light,

  On a bed so nice as this;

So, my dear mamma, good night,

  Give your little girl a kiss.

Oh, Mary, this will never do!

  This work is sadly done, my dear,

And such a little of it too,

  You have not taken pains, I fear.

Oh! no, your work has been forgotten,

  Indeed you’ve hardly thought of that;

I saw you roll your ball of cotton

  About the floor to please the cat.

See, here are stitches straggling wide,

  And others reaching down so far;

I’m very sure you have not tried

  At all to-day to please mamma.

The little girl who will not sew,

  Should neither be allow’d to play;

But then I hope, my love, that you

  Will take more pains another day.

I’m a little gentleman,

Play, and ride, and dance I can:

Very handsome clothes I wear,

And I live on dainty fare:

And whenever out I ride,

I’ve a servant by my side.

And I never, all the day,

Need do any thing but play,

Nor even soil my little hand,

Because I am so very grand:

Oh! I’m very glad, I’m sure,

I need not labour, like the poor.

For I think I could not bear

Such old shabby clothes to wear;

To lie upon so hard a bed,

And only live on barley bread;

And what is worse, too, ev’ry day

To have to work as hard as they.

I’m a little husbandman,

Work and labour hard I can:

I’m as happy all the day

At my work, as if ’twere play:

Tho’ I’ve nothing fine to wear.

Yet for that I do not care.

When to work I go along,

Singing loud my morning song,

With my wallet at my back,

Or my waggon-whip to smack;

Oh, I am as happy then,

As the idle gentlemen.

I’ve a hearty appetite,

And I soundly sleep at night.

Down I lie content, and say,

“I’ve been useful all the day:

I’d rather be a plough-boy, than

A useless little gentleman.”

I’m a very little child,

  Only just have learn’d to speak;

So I should be very mild,

  Very tractable and meek.

If my dear mamma were gone,

  I should perish soon, and die,

When she left me all alone,

  Such a little thing as I!

Oh, what service can I do,

  To repay her for her care;

For I cannot even sew,

  Nor make any thing I wear.

Oh then, I will always try

  To be very good and mild;

Never now be cross and cry,

  Like a little fretful child.

For I often cry and fret,

  And my dear mamma I tease;

Often vex her, while I sit

  Dandled pretty on her knees.

Oh, how can I serve her so,

  Such a good mamma as this!

Round her neck my arms I’ll throw,

  And her gentle cheek I’ll kiss.

Then I’ll tell her, that I will

  Try not any more to fret her;

And as I grow older still,

  I hope that I shall serve her better.

Little Harry, come along,

And mamma will sing a song,

All about a naughty lad,

Though a mother kind he had.

He never minded what she said,

But only laugh’d at her instead;

And then did just the same, I’ve heard,

As if she had not said a word.

He would not learn to read his book,

But wisdom’s pleasant way forsook;

With wicked boys he took delight,

And learnt to quarrel and to fight.

And when he saw his mother cry,

And heard her heave a bitter sigh,

To think she’d such a wicked son,

He never cared for what he’d done.

I hope my little Harry will

Mind all I say, and love me still;

For ’tis his mother’s greatest joy,

To think he’s not a wicked boy.

I see an old man sitting there,

His wither’d limbs are almost bare,

And very hoary is his hair.

Old man, why are you sitting so?

For very cold the wind doth blow:

Why don’t you to your cottage go?

Ah, master, in the world so wide,

I have no home wherein to hide,

No comfortable fire-side.

When I, like you, was young and gay,

I’ll tell you what I used to say,

That I would nothing do but play.

And so, instead of being taught

Some useful business, as I ought,

To play about was all I sought.

And now that I am old and grey,

I wander on my lonely way,

And beg my bread from day to day.

Why, here’s a foolish little man,

Laugh at him, Donkey, if you can;

And cat, and dog, and cow, and calf,

Come, ev’ry one of you and laugh:

For, only think, he runs away

If honest Donkey does but bray!

And when the bull begins to bellow,

He’s like a crazy little fellow!

Poor Brindle cow can hardly pass

Along the hedge, to nip the grass,

Or wag her tail to lash the flies,

But off the little booby hies!

And when old Tray comes running too,

With, bow, wow, wow, for how d’ye do,

And means it all for civil play,

’Tis sure to make him run away!

But all the while you’re thinking, may be,

“Ah! well, but this must be a baby.”

Oh! cat, and dog, and cow, and calf,

I’m not surprised to see you laugh,

He’s five years old, and almost half.

Lazy sheep, pray tell me why

In the pleasant fields you lie,

Eating grass and daisies white.

From the morning till the night?

Every thing can something do,

But what kind of use are you?

Nay, my little master, nay,

Do not serve me so, I pray:

Don’t you see the wool that grows

On my back, to make you clothes?

Cold, and very cold you’d get,

If I did not give you it.

True, it seems a pleasant thing

To nip the daisies in the spring;

But many chilly nights I pass

On the cold and dewy grass,

Or pick a scanty dinner, where

All the common’s brown and bare.

Then the farmer comes at last,

When the merry spring is past,

And cuts my woolly coat away,

To warm you in the winter’s day:

Little master, this is why

In the pleasant fields I lie.

Ah! why’s my poor fellow so pale?

  And why do the little tears fall?

Come, tell me, love, what do you ail,

  And mother shall cure him of all.

There, lay your white cheek on my lap,

  With your pinafore over your head,

And, perhaps, when you’ve taken a nap,

  Again your white cheek may be red.

Oh! no, don’t be kind to me yet:

  I do not deserve to be kiss’d;

Some gooseb’ries and currants I eat,

  For I thought that they would not be miss’d:

And so, when you left me alone,

  I took them, although they were green!

But is it not better to own

  What a sad naughty boy I have been?

Oh! yes, I am sorry to hear

  The thing that my Richard has done;

But as you have own’d it, my dear,

  You have not made two faults of one:

Be sure that you never again

  Forget that God watches your way,

And patiently bear with your pain,

  That does but your folly repay.

Why is my silly girl so vain,

Looking in the glass again?

For the meekest flower of spring

Is a gayer little thing.

Is your merry eye so blue,

As the violet, wet with dew!

Yet it loves the best to hide

By the hedge’s shady side.

Is your bosom half so fair

As the modest lilies are?

Yet their little bells are hung,

Broad and shady leaves among.

When your cheek the warmest glows,

Is it redder than the rose?

But its sweetest buds are seen

Almost hid with moss and green.

Little flow’rs that open gay,

Peeping forth at break of day,

In the garden, hedge, or plain,

Have more reason to be vain.

What! go to see the kittens drown’d,

  On purpose, in the yard!

I did not think there could be found

  A little heart so hard.

Poor kittens! no more pretty play

  With pussy’s wagging tail:

Oh! I’d go far enough away,

  Before I’d see the pail.

No mother kind, nor pleasant bed,

  Nor merry games again!

But there to struggle till you’re dead,

  And mew with bitter pain.

Poor things! the little child that can

  Be pleased to look and see,

Most likely, when he grows a man,

  A cruel man will be.

And many a wicked thing he’ll do,

  Because his heart is hard;

A great deal worse than killing you,

  Poor kittens, in the yard.

Come here, I’ve got a piece of rag,

To make you quite a pretty bag;

Not make believe—no, no, you’ll see

The clever bag that it shall be.

And when ’tis done, I’ll show you what

A handsome present I have got:

A needle-book, and scissors too,

Right earnest ones, and all for you.

And then, you know, you’ll keep them in it,

So that you need not lose a minute,

In hunting up and down to say,

“Where can my scissors be to-day?”

“Pray, somebody, do try and look,

To find my thread and needle-book;”

No, no, but—“I know where they are.

They’re in my little work-bag there.”

I think I should like to be happy to-day,

If I could but tell which was the easiest way:

But then, I don’t know any pretty new play:

And as to the old ones—why, which is the best?

There’s fine hot boil’d beans, whoop and hide, and the rest;

Or make-believe tea-time, with all my dolls drest.

But no—let me see, now I’ve thought of a way,

That really I think will be better than play,

I’ll try to be good, if I can, the whole day.

No passion, no pouting, no crying: no, no,

They make me unhappy wherever I go,

And it would be a pity to spoil a day so.

I don’t choose to be such a baby, not I,

To quarrel, and sulk, and be naughty, and cry,

So now I’ll begin, for at least I can try.

Dear kitten, do lie still, I say,

  For much I want you to be quiet,

Instead of scampering away,

  And always making such a riot.

There, only see, you’ve torn my frock,

  And poor mamma must put a patch in;

I’ll give you a right earnest knock,

  To cure you of this trick of scratching.

Nay, do not scold your little cat,

  She does not know what ’tis you’re saying;

And ev’ry time you give a pat,

  She thinks you mean it all for playing.

But if your pussy understood

  The lesson that you want to teach her,

And did not choose to be so good,

  She’d be, indeed, a naughty creature.

Who am I with noble face,

Shining in a clear blue place?

If to look at me you try,

I shall blind your little eye.

When my noble face I shew,

Over yonder mountain blue,

All the clouds away do ride,

And the dusky night beside.

Then the clear wet dews I dry,

With the look of my bright eye;

And the little birds awake,

Many a merry tune to make.

Cowslips then, and hare-bells blue,

And lily-cups their leaves undo,

For they shut themselves up tight,

All the dark and foggy night.

Then the busy people go,

Every one his work unto;

Little girl, when yours is done,

Guess, if I am not the sun.

Who am I that shine so bright,

With my pretty yellow light;

Peeping through your curtains grey?

Tell me, little girl, I pray.

When the sun is gone, I rise

In the very silent skies;

And a cloud or two doth skim

Round about my silver rim.

All the little stars do seem

Hidden by my brighter beam;

And among them I do ride,

Like a queen in all her pride.

Then the reaper goes along,

Singing forth a merry song,

While I light the shaking leaves,

And the yellow harvest sheaves.

A little bird built a warm nest in a tree,

And laid some blue eggs in it, one, two, and three,

And then very glad and delighted was she.

So, after a while, but how long I can’t tell,

The little ones crept, one by one, from the shell;

And their mother was pleased, and she loved them well.

She spread her soft wings on them all the day long,

To warm and to guard them, her love was so strong;

And her mate sat beside her and sung her a song.

One day the young birds were all crying for food,

So off flew their mother away from her brood;

And up came some boys who were wicked and rude.

So they pull’d the warm nest down away from the tree;

And the little ones cried, but they could not get free;

So at last they all died away, one, two, and three.

But when back again the poor mother did fly,

Oh, then she set up a most pitiful cry!

So she mourn’d a long while, and then lay down to die!

Now the spring is coming on,

Now the snow and ice are gone,

Come, my little snow-drop root,

Will you not begin to shoot?

Ah! I see your little head

Peeping on my flower-bed,

Looking all so green and gay

On this fine and pleasant day.

For the mild south wind doth blow,

And hath melted all the snow,

And the sun shines out so warm,

You need not fear another storm.

So your pretty flower shew,

And your leaves of white undo,

Then you’ll hang your modest head,

Down upon my flower-bed.

Why now, my dear boys, this is always the way,

You can’t be contented with innocent play,

But this sort of romping, so noisy and high,

Is never left off till it ends in a cry.

What! are there no games you can take a delight in,

But kicking, and knocking, and boxing, and fighting?

It is a sad thing to be forced to conclude

That boys can’t be merry, without being rude.

Now what is the reason you never can play,

Without snatching each other’s playthings away?

Would it be any hardship to let them alone,

When ev’ry one of you has toys of his own?

I often have told you before, my dear boys,

That I do not object to your making a noise;

Or running and jumping about any how,

But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.

So, if any more of these quarrels are heard,

I tell you this once, and I’ll keep to my word,

I’ll take ev’ry marble, and spintop, and ball,

And not let you play with each other at all.

Well, now I will sit down, and work very fast,

And try if I can’t be a good girl at last:

’Tis better than being so sulky and haughty,

I’m really quite tired of being so naughty.

For, as mamma says, when my bus’ness is done,

There’s plenty of time left to play and to run:

But when ’tis my work-time, I ought to sit still,

I know that I ought, and I certainly will.

But for fear, after all, I should get at my play,

I’ll put my wax-doll in the closet away;

And I’ll not look to see what the kitten is doing,

Nor yet think of any thing now but my sewing.

I’m sorry I’ve idled so often before,

But I hope I shall never do so any more:

Mamma will be pleased when she sees how I mend,

And have done this long seam from beginning to end!

It happen’d that a little snail

Came crawling, with his slimy tail,

  Upon a cabbage-stalk;

But two more little snails were there,

Both feasting on this dainty fare,

  Engaged in friendly talk.

“No, no, you shall not dine with us;

How dare you interrupt us thus,”

  The greedy snails declare;

So their poor brother they discard,

Who really thinks it very hard

  He may not have his share.

But selfish folks are sure to know

They get no good by being so,

  In earnest or in play;

Which these two snails confess’d, no doubt,

When soon the gardener spied them out,

  And threw them both away.

Oh! thank you, good Dobbin, you’ve been a long track,

And have carried papa all the way on your back;

You shall have some nice oats, faithful Dobbin, indeed,

For you’ve brought papa home to his darling with speed.

The howling wind blew, and the pelting rain beat,

And the thick mud has cover’d his legs and his feet,

But yet on he gallop’d in spite of the rain,

And has brought papa home to his darling again.

The sun it was setting a long while ago,

And papa could not see the road where he should go,

But Dobbin kept on through the desolate wild,

And has brought papa home again safe to his child.

Now go to the stable, the night is so raw,

Go, Dobbin, and rest your old bones on the straw;

Don’t stand any longer out here in the rain,

For you’ve brought papa home to his darling again.

Why is Mary standing there,

Leaning down upon a chair,

With pouting lip and frowning brow?

I wonder what’s the matter now.

Come here, my dear, and tell me true,

Is it because I scolded you

For doing work so bad and slow,

That you are standing sulking so?

Why then, indeed, I’m griev’d to see,

That you can so ill-temper’d be:

You make your fault a great deal worse,

By being angry and perverse.

Oh, how much better it appears,

To see you melting into tears,

And then to hear you humbly say,

“I’ll not do so another day.”

But when you stand and sulk about,

And look so cross, and cry, and pout,

Why that, my little girl you know,

Is worse than working bad and slow.

The sun at ev’ning sets, and then

The lion leaves his gloomy den;

He roars along the forest wide,

And all who hear are terrified:

There he prowls at evening hour,

Seeking something to devour.

When the sun is in the west,

The white owl leaves his darksome nest;

Wide he opes his staring eyes,

And screams, as round and round he flies;

For he hates the cheerful light,

He sleeps by day, and wakes at night.

When the lion cometh out,

When the white owl flies about,

I must lay my sleepy head

Down upon my pleasant bed;

There all night I’ll lay me still,

While the owl is screaming shrill.

The cock, who soundly sleeps at night,

Rises with the morning light,

Very loud and shrill he crows;

Then the sleeping ploughman knows

He must leave his bed also,

To his morning work to go.

And the little lark does fly

To the middle of the sky:

You may hear his merry tune,

In the morning very soon;

For he does not like to rest

Idle in his downy nest.

While the cock is crowing shrill,

Leave my little bed I will,

And I’ll rise to hear the lark,

For it is no longer dark:

’Twould be a pity there to stay,

When ’tis bright and pleasant day.

So, so, you are running away, Mr. Fly,

But I’ll come at you now, if you don’t go too high;

There, there, I have caught you, you can’t get away:

Never mind, my old fellow, I’m only in play.

Oh Charles! cruel Charles! you have kill’d the poor fly,

You have pinch’d him so hard, he is going to die:

His legs are all broken, and he cannot stand;

There, now he is fallen down dead in your hand!

I hope you are sorry for what you have done,

You may kill many flies, but you cannot make one.

No, you can’t set it up, as I told you before,

It is dead, and it never will stand any more.

Poor thing! as it buzz’d up and down on the glass,

How little it thought what was coming to pass!

For it could not have guess’d, as it frisk’d in the sun,

That a child would destroy it for nothing but fun.

Tumble down, tumble up, never mind it, my sweet,

  No, no, never beat the poor floor:

’Twas your fault, that could not stand straight on your feet,

  Beat yourself, if you beat any more.

Oh dear! what a noise: will a noise make it well?

  Will crying wash bruises away?

Suppose that it should bleed a little and swell,

  ’Twill all be gone down in a day.

That’s right, be a man, love, and dry up your tears,

  Come, smile, and I’ll give you a kiss:

If you live in the world but a very few years,

  You must bear greater troubles than this.

Ah! there’s the last tear dropping down from your cheek!

  All the dimples are coming again!

And your round little face looks as ruddy and meek,

  As a rose that’s been wash’d in the rain.

Dear mother, said a little fish,

  Pray is not that a fly?

I’m very hungry, and I wish

  You’d let me go and try.

Sweet innocent, the mother cried,

  And started from her nook,

That horrid fly is put to hide

  The sharpness of the hook.

Now, as I’ve heard, this little trout

  Was young and foolish too,

And so he thought he’d venture out,

  To see if it were true.

And round about the hook he play’d,

  With many a longing look,

And—“Dear me,” to himself he said,

  “I’m sure that’s not a hook.

“I can but give one little pluck:

  Let’s see, and so I will.”

So on he went, and lo! it stuck

  Quite through his little gill.

And as he faint and fainter grew,

  With hollow voice he cried,

“Dear mother, had I minded you,

  I need not now have died.”

What is this pretty little thing,

That nurse so carefully doth bring

And round its head her apron fling?

                                  A baby!

Oh! dear, how very soft its cheek:

Why, nurse, I cannot make it speak,

And it can’t walk, it is so weak,

                                  Poor baby.

Here, take a bit, you little dear,

I’ve got some cake and sweetmeats here:

’Tis very nice, you need not fear,

                                  You baby.

Oh! I’m afraid that it will die,

Why can’t it eat as well as I,

And jump and talk? Do let it try,

                                  Poor baby.

Why, you were once a baby too,

And could not jump, as now you do,

But good mamma took care of you,

                                  Like baby.

And then she taught your pretty feet

To pat along the carpet neat,

And call’d papa to come and meet

                                  His baby.

Oh! good mamma, to take such care,

And no kind pains and trouble spare,

To feed and nurse you, when you were

                                  A baby.

Ah! there it falls, and now ’tis dead,

The shot went through its pretty head,

  And broke its shining wing!

How dull and dim its closing eyes!

How cold, and stiff, and still it lies!

  Poor harmless little thing!

It was a lark, and in the sky,

In mornings fine, it mounted high,

  To sing a merry song:

Cutting the fresh and healthy air,

It whistled out its music there,

  As light it skimmed along.

How little thought its pretty breast,

This morning, when it left its nest

  Hid in the springing corn,

To find some victuals for its young,

And pipe away its morning song,

  It never should return.

Those pretty wings shall never more

Its callow nestlings cover o’er,

  Or bring them dainties rare:

But long their gaping beaks will cry,

And then with pinching hunger die,

  All in the bitter air.

Poor little bird! if people knew

The sorrows little birds go through,

  I think that even boys

Would never call it sport and fun,

To stand and fire a frightful gun,

  For nothing but the noise.

Ah! the poor little blackamoor, see there he goes,

And the blood gushes out from his half-frozen toes,

And his legs are so thin you may almost see the bones,

As he goes shiver, shiver, all along on the stones.

He was once a negro-boy, and a merry boy was he,

Playing outlandish plays, by the tall palm-tree,

Or bathing in the river like a brisk water-rat,

And at night sleeping sound on a little piece of mat.

But there came some wicked people, and they stole him far away,

And then good bye to palm-tree tall, and merry, merry play;

For they took him from his house and home, and ev’ry body dear,

And now, poor little negro-boy, he’s come a begging here.

And fie upon the wicked folks who did this cruel thing!

I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the king;

For to steal him from his house and home must be a crying sin,

Though he was a little negro-boy, and had a sooty skin.

Poor Donkey, I’ll give him a handful of grass,

I’m sure he’s a good-natured, honest old ass:

He trots to the market to carry the sack,

And lets me ride all the way home on his back;

And only just stops by the ditch for a minute,

To see if there’s any fresh grass for him in it.

’Tis true, now and then, he has got a bad trick

Of standing stock still, tho’ he never will kick;

And then, poor old fellow, you know, he can’t tell

That standing stock still is not using me well;

For it never comes into his head, I dare say,

To do his work first, and then afterwards play.

No, no, my good Donkey, I’ll give you some grass,

For you know no better, because you’re an ass;

But what little Donkeys some children must look,

Who stand, very like you, stock still at their book,

And waste ev’ry moment of time as it passes,

A great deal more stupid and silly than asses.

Come, my love, ’tis pleasant spring,

  Let us make a posy gay:

Ev’ry pretty flow’r we’ll bring,

  Daisy white, and prickly May;

Then along the hedge we’ll go,

Where the purple violets blow.

After that the primrose fair,

  Looking very pale and dim;

And we’ll search the meadows, where,

  Cowslips grow with yellow rim;

With a butter-cup or two,

Holding little drops of dew.

Then the snow-drop, hanging low

  On its green and narrow stalk;

And the crocuses, that blow

  Up and down the garden walk:

All these pretty flow’rs we’ll bring,

To make a posy for the spring.

Now the yellow cowslips fade,

  All along the woody walk;

And the primrose hangs her head

  Faintly, on her tiny stalk;

Let us to the garden go,

Where the flow’rs of summer grow.

Come, and make a nosegay there,

  Plucking every flower that blows:

Brier sweet, and lily fair,

  That along the valley grows;

With a honeysuckle red,

Round the shady arbour led.

Then a budding rose or two,

  Half in mossy leaves enroll’d,

With the larkspur red and blue,

  Streaky pink, and marigold:

These shall make our posy gay,

In the cheerful summer day.

Now the fog has risen high,

  Through the chilly morning air;

And the blue and cheerful sky

  Peeps upon us, here and there:

Once again we’ll gather, sweet,

Ev’ry pretty flow’r we meet.

Ah! the yellow leaves are now

  Over all the garden spread,

Scatter’d from the naked bough

  On the lonely flower-bed;

Where the autumn daisy blue,

Opens, wet with chilly dew.

Lavender, of darksome green,

  Shows its purple blossoms near;

And the golden rod is seen,

  Shooting up his yellow spear;

These are all that we can find,

In our posy gay to bind.

Now the winds of winter blow

  Fiercely through the chilly air;

Now the fields are white with snow,

  Can we find a posy there?

No, there cannot, all around,

A single blade of grass be found.

Nothing but the holly bright,

  Spotted with its berries gay;

Lauristinus, red and white;

  Or the ivy’s crooked spray;

With a sloe of darksome blue,

Where the ragged blackthorn grew.

I hear a pretty bird, but hark!

  I cannot see it any where:

Oh! it is a little lark,

  Singing in the morning air.

Little lark, do tell me why

You are singing in the sky.

Other little birds at rest,

  Have not yet begun to sing;

Every one is in its nest,

  With its head behind its wing:

Little lark, then, tell me why

You sing so early in the sky.

You look no bigger than a bee,

  In the middle of the blue,

Up above the poplar tree;

  I can hardly look at you:

Come, little lark, and tell me why

You are mounted up so high.

’Tis to watch the silver star,

  Sinking slowly in the skies;

And beyond the mountain far,

  To see the glorious sun arise:

Little lady, this is why

I am mounted up so high.

’Tis to sing a merry song,

  To the pleasant morning light:

Why linger in my nest so long,

  When the sun is shining bright?

Little lady, this is why

I sing so early in the sky.

To the little birds below,

  I do sing a merry tune;

And I let the ploughman know

  He must come to labour soon.

Little lady, this is why

I am singing in the sky.

Old Tray and rough Growler are having a fight,

  So let us get out of their way;

They snarl, and they growl, and they bark, and they bite!

  Oh dear, what a terrible fray!

Why, what foolish fellows? Now, is it not hard

  They can’t live together in quiet?

There’s plenty of room for them both in the yard,

  And always a plenty of diet.

But who ever said to old Growler and Tray,

  It was naughty to quarrel and fight?

They think ’tis as pretty to fight as to play;

  Nor know they the wrong from the right.

But when little children, who know it is wrong,

  Are angrily fighting away,

A great deal more blame unto them must belong,

  Than to quarrelsome Growler and Tray.

Poor Tom is a husbandman, healthy and strong,

He follows his plough as it hobbles along,

And as he plods after it, sings him a song.

He’s up in the morning before the cock crows,

For he should not be idle, he very well knows;

Tho’ folks who are idle know that, I suppose.

And when the sun sets, and his work is done soon,

He finds his way home by the light of the moon:

She shines in his face, and he whistles a tune.

So when he gets home, (and he never delays,)

And sees his neat cot, and the cheerful wood blaze,

His heart glows within him with pleasure and praise.

’Tis those who won’t work, that mayn’t eat, it is said;

But Tom, with good appetite, takes his brown bread,

And cheerful and happy he goes to his bed.

A very great lord lives near Thomas’s cot,

Who servants, and coaches, and horses has got;

And yet his poor neighbour Tom envies him not.

For coaches and horses, and delicate food,

Can’t make people happy, unless they are good!

But then he is idle, and wicked, and rude.

He never does any thing all the day long,

Altho’ he is able, and healthy, and strong:

At least, nothing right, but he often does wrong.

And then he’s as vain as he ever can be,

He wears gaudy clothes, that poor people may see,

And laughs at good folks, who are better than he.

And, tho’ he’s so rich, and so great, and so high,

He does no more good than a worm or a fly;

And no one would miss him, if he were to die.

I think ’tis much better, for all that I see,

A poor honest ploughman, like Thomas, to be,

Than a fine wealthy lord, but as useless as he.

There’s a poor beggar going by,

  I see her looking in;

She’s just about as big as I,

  Only so very thin.

She has no shoes upon her feet,

  She is so very poor;

And hardly any thing to eat:

  I pity her, I’m sure.

But I have got nice clothes, you know,

  And meat, and bread, and fire;

And you, mamma, that love me so,

  And all that I desire.

If I were forced to stroll so far,

  Oh dear, what should I do!

I wish she had a dear mamma,

  Just such a one as you.

Here, little girl, come back again,

  And hold your ragged hat,

For I will put a penny in;

  So buy some bread with that.

Oh, Harry! my dear, do not kick the poor cat,

For, Pussy, I’m sure, will not thank you for that;

She was doing no harm, as she sat on the mat.

Suppose some great giant, amazingly strong,

Were often to kick you and drive you along;

Now, would you not think it exceedingly wrong?

And, Harry, I think you’re as greatly to blame,

When you serve poor pussy exactly the same,

For she’s very gentle, and quiet, and tame.

She is under the table, quite out of your way,

But why should you tease her and drive her away?

She takes it in earnest, if you think it play.

There, now go and call her, and stroke her again,

And never, my love, give poor animals pain,

For you know, when you hurt them, they cannot complain.

A little black ant found a large grain of wheat,

  Too heavy to lift or to roll;

So he begg’d of a neighbour he happen’d to meet,

  To help it down into his hole.

I’ve got my own work to see after, said he;

  You must shift for yourself, if you please;

So he crawl’d off, as selfish and cross as could be,

  And lay down to sleep at his ease.

Just then a black brother was passing the road,

  And seeing his neighbour in want,

Came up and assisted him in with his load;

  For he was a good-natured ant.

Let all who this story may happen to hear,

  Endeavour to profit by it;

For often it happens that children appear

  As cross as the ant, ev’ry bit.

And the good-natured ant, who assisted his brother,

  May teach those who choose to be taught,

That if little insects are kind to each other,

  Then children most certainly ought.

I hate being scolded, and having a rout,

I’ve a good mind to stand in the corner and pout;

And if mamma calls me, I will not come out.

Yes, yes, here I’ll keep, I’m resolv’d on it quite,

With my face to the wall and my back to the light,

And I’ll not speak a word, if I stand here all night.

And yet mamma says, when I’m naughty and cry,

She scolds me to make me grow good by and by,

And that, all the time, she’s as sorry as I.

And she says, when I’m naughty, and will not obey,

If she were to let me go on in that way,

I should grow up exceedingly wicked one day.

Oh, then, what a very sad girl I should be,

To be sulky and cross when she punishes me,

And grieve such a very kind mother as she.

Well, then, I’ll go to her directly, and say,

Forgive me this once, my dear mother, I pray;

For that will be better than sulking all day.

We’ll go to the meadows, where cowslips do grow,

  And buttercups, looking as yellow as gold;

And daisies and violets, beginning to blow;

  For it is a most beautiful sight to behold.

The little bee humming about them is seen,

  The butterfly merrily dances along;

The grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green,

  And the linnet is singing his liveliest song.

The birds and the insects are happy and gay,

  The beasts of the field they are glad and rejoice,

And we will be thankful to God ev’ry day,

  And praise his great name in a loftier voice.

He made the green meadows, he planted the flow’rs,

  He sent his bright sun in the heavens to blaze;

He created these wonderful bodies of ours,

  And as long as we live we will sing of his praise.

A wasp met a bee that was just buzzing by,

And he said, little cousin, can you tell me why

You are loved so much better by people than I?

My back shines as bright and as yellow as gold,

And my shape is most elegant too, to behold;

Yet nobody likes me for that, I am told.

Ah! cousin, the bee said, ’tis all very true.

But if I were half as much mischief to do,

Indeed they would love me no better than you.

You have a fine shape and a delicate wing,

They own you are handsome, but then there’s one thing

They cannot put up with, and that is your sting.

My coat is quite homely and plain, as you see,

Yet nobody ever is angry with me,

Because I’m a humble and innocent bee.

Here’s morning again, and a good fire-side,

  And a breakfast so nice, in a basin so full;

How good, dear mamma, for my wants to provide,

  I ought to be good too—but sure you are dull.

You don’t smile to meet me, nor call me your dear;

  Nor place your arms round me so kind on your knee;

Nor give the sweet kiss as I climb up your chair:

  Nay, sure that’s a frown: are you angry with me?

Oh! now I remember, quite naughty last night,

  I left you in passion, nor came for a kiss;

I bounced from the room in vexation and spite:

  Indeed, ’twas ungrateful, I did act amiss.

My fretful ill-temper, so naughty and rude,

  To you was unkind, before God it was wrong!

I’m ashamed to come near, when I know I’m not good:

  You ought not to kiss me for ever so long.

Yet, indeed, I do love you, and stoutly will try

  To subdue ev’ry passion that moves me amiss:

I’ll pray God to pardon my sin, lest I die:

  When you see my repentance, I know you will kiss.

Come, pussy, will you learn to read?

  I’ve got a pretty book:

Nay, turn this way, you must, indeed:

  Fie, there’s a sulky look.

Here is a pretty picture, see,

  An apple and great A:

How stupid you will ever be,

  If you do nought but play.

Come, A, B, C, an easy task,

  What any fool can do:

I will do any thing you ask,

  For dearly I love you.

Now, how I’m vex’d, you are so dull,

  You have not learnt it half:

You will grow up a downright fool,

  And make all people laugh.

Mamma told me so, I declare,

  And made me quite ashamed;

So I resolved no pains to spare,

  Nor like a dunce be blamed.

Well, get along, you naughty kit,

  And after mice go look;

I’m glad that I have got more wit,

  I love my pretty book.

I’ll tell you a story, come, sit on my knee;

A true and a pitiful one it shall be,

About an old man, and a poor man was he.

He’d a fine merry boy, (such another as you,)

And he did for him all that a father could do;

For he was a kind father as ever I knew.

So he hoped that, one day, when his darling should grow

A fine hearty man, he’d remember, you know,

To thank his old father for loving him so.

But what do you think came of all this at last?

Why, after a great many years had gone past,

And the good-natured father grew old very fast;

Instead of rememb’ring how kind he had been,

This boy did not care for his father a pin,

But bade him begone, for he should not come in!

So he wander’d about in the frost and the snow!

For he had not a place in the world where to go:

And you’d almost have cried to have heard the wind blow.