Part 3

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!

The Snow-drop.

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.

Romping.

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.

Working.

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!

The Selfish Snails.

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.

Good Dobbin.

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.

Sulking.

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.

Time to go to Bed.

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.

Time to rise.

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.

The poor Fly.

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.

The spider, who weaves his fine cobweb so neat, _Might_ have caught him, indeed, for he wants him to eat; But the poor flies must learn to keep out of _your_ way, As you kill them for nothing at all but your play. J.T.

Tumble up.

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.

The little Fish that would not do as it was bid.

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.”

The Two Babies.

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.

What came of firing a Gun.

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.

The little Negro.

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.

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.

The Spring Nosegay.

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.

The Summer Nosegay.

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.

The Autumn Nosegay.

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.

The Winter Nosegay.

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.

Or the hip of shining red, Where the wild rose used to grow, Peeping out its scarlet head, From beneath a cap of snow; These are all that dare to stay Through the cutting winter’s day. A.T.

The little Lark.

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.

The quarrelsome Dogs.

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.

The honest Ploughman.

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.

The great Lord.

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.

The little Beggar Girl.

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.

Poor Puss.

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.