Children with hoops
But whilst he strutted through the street,With looks both vain and pert,A sweep-boy pass'd, whom not to meet,He slipp'd—into the dirt.The sooty lad, whose heart was kind,To help him quickly ran,And grasp'd his arm, with—"Never mind,You're up, my little man."Sweep wiped his clothes with labour vain,And begg'd him not to cry;And when he'd blacken'd every stain,Said, "Little sir, good-bye."Poor George, almost as dark as sweep,And smear'd in dress and face,Bemoans with sobs, both loud and deep,His well-deserved disgrace.
Children looking at old woman
PoorMartha is old, and her hair is turn'd grey,And her hearing has left her for many a year;Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say,Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her earI've seen naughty children run after her fast,And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock so bold;"And when she was frighten'd,—laugh at her at last,Because she believed the sad stories they told.I've seen others put their mouths close to her ear,And make signs as if they had something to say;And when she said, "Master, I'm deaf, and can't hear,"Point at her and mock her, and scamper away.Ah! wicked the children poor Martha to tease,As if she had not enough else to endure;They rather should try her affliction to ease,And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure.One day, when those children themselves are grown old,And one may be deaf, and another be lame,Perhaps they may find that some children, as bold,May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the same.Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth,A faithful account will their consciences keep,And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the truth,That "what a man soweth, the same shall he reap."
crate and post
girl with crutch looking at children in distance
I'ma helpless cripple child,Gentle Christians, pity me;Once, in rosy health I smiled,Blithe and gay as you can be,And upon the village greenFirst in every sport was seen.Now, alas! I'm weak and low,Cannot either work or play;Tottering on my crutches, slow,Thus I drag my weary way:Now no longer dance and sing,Gaily, in the merry ring.Many sleepless nights I live,Turning on my weary bed;Softest pillows cannot giveSlumber to my aching head;Constant anguish makes it flyFrom my heavy, wakeful eye.And, when morning beams return,Still no comfort beams for me:Still my limbs with fever burnPainful still my crippled knee.And another tedious dayPasses slow and sad away.From my chamber-window high,Lifted to my easy-chair,I the village-green can spy,OnceIused to frolic there,March, or beat my new-bought drum;Happy times! no more to come.There I see my fellows gay,Sporting on the daisied turf,And, amidst their cheerful play,Stopp'd by many a merry laugh;But the sight I scarce can bear,Leaning in my easy-chair.Let not then the scoffing eyeLaugh, my twisted leg to see:Gentle Christians, passing by,Stop awhile, and pity me,And for you I'll breathe a prayer,Leaning in my easy-chair.
flowers
Woman holding baby lookiing down at little girl
Ah, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care?And why is she left on the floor?Forsaken, and cover'd with dust, I declare;With you I must trust her no more.I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly,When on your birthday she was sent;Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly?Was that, do you think, what I meant?With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted,And trimm'd it so pretty with pink;But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted:Her nurse quite forgets her, I think.Suppose now—for Mary isdollyto me,Whom I love to see tidy and fair—Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see,In tatters, and comfortless there.But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear,Nor cares for her negligent nurse:If I were as careless as you are, I fear,Your lot, and my fault, would be worse.And therefore it is, in my Mary, I striveTo check every fault that I see:Mary's doll is but waxen—mamma's is alive,And of far more importance than she.
woman and two little girls looking at spider web
"Oh, look at that great ugly spider!" said Ann;And screaming, she brush'd it away with her fan;"'Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be,I wish that it would not come crawling on me.""Indeed," said her mother, "I'll venture to say,The poor thing will try to keep out of your way;For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain,It has much more occasion than you to complain."But why should you dread the poor insect, my dear?If ithurtyou, there'd be some excuse for your fear;But its little black legs, as it hurried away,Did but tickle your arm, as they went, I dare say."Forthemto fearuswe must grant to be just,Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust;But certainlywehave no cause for alarm;For, were they to try, they could do us no harm."Now look! it has got to its home; do you seeWhat a delicate web it has spun in the tree?Why here, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you:Come learn from this spider what patience can do!"And when at your business you're tempted to play,Recollect what you see in this insect to-day,Or else, to your shame, it may seem to be true,That a poor little spider is wiser than you."
plums on branch
Mysweet little girl should be cheerful and mild,She must not be fretful and cry!Oh! why is this passion? remember, my child,Godsees you, who lives in the sky.That dear little face, that I like so to kiss,How alter'd and sad it appears!Do you think I can love you so naughty as this,Or kiss you, all wetted with tears?Remember, thoughGodis in Heaven, my love,He sees you within and without,And always looks down, from His glory above,To notice what you are about.
LIttle girl standing on a table having face wiped by mother, another child on floor
If I am not with you, or if it be dark,And nobody is in the way,His eye is as able your doings to mark,In the night as it is in the day.Then dry up your tears and look smiling again,And never do things that are wrong;For I'm sure you must feel it a terrible pain,To be naughty and crying so long.We'll pray, then, thatGodmay your passion forgive,And teach you from evil to fly;And then you'll be happy as long as you live,And happy whenever you die.
carnation
girl sitting on lawn beside gate
Thewind blows down the largest tree,And yet the wind I cannot see!Playmates far off, who have been kind,My thought can bring before my mind;The past by it is present brought,And yet I cannot see my thought;The charming rose scents all the air,Yet I can see no perfume there.Blithe Robin's notes how sweet, how clear!From his small bill they reach my ear,And whilst upon the air they float,I hear, yet cannot see a note.When I would do what is forbid,Bysomethingin my heart I'm chid;When good, I think, then quick and pat,Thatsomethingsays, "My child, do that:"When I too near the stream would go,So pleased to see the waters flow,Thatsomethingsays, without a sound,"Take care, dear child, you may be drown'd:"And for the poor whene'er I grieve,Thatsomethingsays, "A penny give."Thussomethingvery near must be,Although invisible to me;Whate'er I do, it sees me still:O then, good Spirit, guide my will.
woman and four children at table
Frommorning till night it was Lucy's delightTo chatter and talk without stopping:There was not a day but she rattled away,Like water for ever a-dropping.No matter at all if the subjects were small,Or not worth the trouble of saying,'Twas equal to her, she would talking preferTo working, or reading, or playing.You'll think now, perhaps, that there would have been gaps,If she had not been wonderfully clever:That her sense was so great, and so witty her pate,It would be forthcoming for ever;But that's quite absurd, for have you not heardThat much tongue and few brains are connected?That they are supposed to think least who talk most,And their wisdom is always suspected?While Lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue,With a little good sense and exertion,Who knows, but she might now have been our delight,Instead of our jest and aversion?
Therewere two little girls, neither handsome nor plain;One's name was Eliza, the other's was Jane:They were both of one height, as I've heard people say,They were both of one age, I believe, to a day.'Twas fancied by some, who but slightly had seen them,That scarcely a difference was there between them;But no one for long in this notion persisted,So great a distinction there really existed.Eliza knew well that she could not be pleasing,While fretting and fuming, while sulky or teasing;And therefore in company artfully tried,Not tobreakher bad habits, but only tohide.So, when she was out, with much labour and pain,She contrived to look almost as pleasant as Jane;But then you might see, that in forcing a smile,Her mouth was uneasy, and ached all the while.And in spite of her care, it would sometimes befall,That some cross event happen'd to ruin it all;And because it might chance that her share was the worst,Her temper broke loose, and her dimples dispersed.But Jane, who had nothing she wanted to hide,And therefore these troublesome arts never tried,Had none of the care and fatigue of concealing,But her face always show'd what her bosom was feeling.At home or abroad there was peace in her smile,A cheerful good nature that needed no guile.And Eliza work'd hard, but could never obtainThe affection that freely was given to Jane.
little boy asleep on sofa with two women looking at him
"I donot like to go to bed,"Sleepy little Harry said;"Go, naughty Betty, go away,I will not come at all, I say!"Oh, silly child! what is he saying?As if he could be always playing!Then, Betty, you must come and carryThis 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,Theywent 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.
girl havnig her face washed
Ah!why will my dear little girl be so cross,And cry, and look sulky, and pout?To lose her sweet smile is a terrible loss,I can't even kiss her without.You say you don't like to be wash'd and be dress'd,But would you not wish to be clean?Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast,This face is not fit to be seen.If the water is cold, and the brush hurts your head,And the soap has got into your eye,Will the water grow warmer for all that you've said?And what good will it do you to cry?It is not to tease you and hurt you, my sweet,But only for kindness and care,That I wash you, and dress you, and make you look neat,And comb out your tanglesome hair.I don't mind the trouble, if you would not cry,But pay me for all with a kiss;That's right—take the towel and wipe your wet eye,I thought you'd be good after this.
pears
"But, mamma, now," said Charlotte, "pray, don't you believeThat I'm better than Jenny, my nurse?Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve;Her clothes are a thousand times worse."I ride in my coach, and have nothing to do,And the country folks stare at me so;And nobody dares to control me but youBecause I'm a lady, you know.
Girl with hat gloves and parasol talking to seated woman
"Then, servants are vulgar, and I am genteel;So, really, 'tis out of the way,To think that I should not be better a dealThan maids, and such people as they.""Gentility, Charlotte," her mother replied,"Belongs to no station or place;And nothing's so vulgar as folly and pride,Though dress'd in red slippers and lace."Not all the fine things that fine ladies possessShould teach them the poor to despise;For 'tis in good manners, and not in good dress,That the truest gentility lies."
Two women and three children meeting in the street
Therewere two friends, a very charming pair,Brunette the brown, and Blanchidine the fair;And she to love Brunette did constantly incline,Nor less did Brunette love sweet Blanchidine.Brunette in dress was neat, yet always plain;But Blanchidine of finery was vain.Now Blanchidine a new acquaintance made—A little girl most sumptuously array'd,In plumes and ribbons, gaudy to behold,And India frock, with spots of shining gold.Said Blanchidine, "A girl so richly dress'd,Should surely be by everyone caress'd,To play with me if she will condescend,Henceforth 'tis she alone shall be my friend."And so for this new friend in silks adorn'd,Her poor Brunette was slighted, left, and scorn'd.Of Blanchidine's vast stock of pretty toys,A wooden doll her every thought employs;Its neck so white, so smooth, its cheeks so red—She kiss'd, she fondled, and she took to bed.Mamma now brought her home a doll of wax,Its hair in ringlets white, and soft as flax;Its eyes could open and its eyes could shut;And on it, too, with taste its clothes were put."My dear wax doll!" sweet Blanchidine would cry—Her doll of wood was thrown neglected by.One summer's day, 'twas in the month of June,The sun blazed out in all the heat of noon:"My waxen doll," she cried, "my dear, my charmer!What, are you cold? but you shall soon be warmer."She laid it in the sun—misfortune dire!The wax ran down as if before the fire!Each beauteous feature quickly disappear'd,And melting, left a blank all soil'd and smear'd.Her doll disfigured, she beheld amazed,And thus express'd her sorrow as she gazed:"Is it for you my heart I have estrangedFrom that I fondly loved, which has not changed?Just so may change my new acquaintance fine,For whom I left Brunette that friend of mine.No more by outside show will I be lured;Of such capricious whims I think I'm cured:To plain old friends my heart shall still be true,Nor change for every face because 'tis new."Her slighted wooden doll resumed its charms,And wronged Brunette she clasp'd within her arms.
flower
Mother swinging baby up in the air
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,While the gay merry coral goes ding-a-ding, ding.
pincushion
"Dearme! what signifies a pin!I'll leave it on the floor;My pincushion has others in,Mamma has plenty more:A miser will I never be,"Said little heedless Emily.So tripping on to giddy play,She left the pin behind,For Betty's broom to whisk away,Or some one else to find;She never gave a thought, indeed,To what she might to-morrow need.Next day a party was to ride,To see an air-balloon!And all the company besideWere dress'd and ready soon:But she, poor girl, she could not stir,For just a pin to finish her.'Twas vainly now, with eye and hand,She did to search begin;There was not one—not one, the bandOf her pelisse to pin!She cut her pincushion in two,But not a pin had slidden through!At last, as hunting on the floor,Over a crack she lay,The carriage rattled to the door,Then rattled fast away.Poor Emily! she was not in,For want of just—a single pin!There's hardly anything so small,So trifling or so mean,That we may never want at all,For service unforeseen:And those who venture wilful waste,May woful want expect to taste.
Thankyou, pretty cow, that madePleasant milk to soak my bread,Every day and every 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 perhaps will make it sweet.Where the purple violet grows,Where the bubbling water flows,Where the grass is fresh and fine,Pretty cow, go there and dine.
Bowl full of porridge with spoon
Littlesister, 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 flowersThat grow about the beds and bowers,Because you know they are not ours.
Two girls playing on lawn
We'll take the daisies, white and red,Because mamma has often saidThat we may gather them instead.And much I hope we always mayOur very dear mamma obey,And mind whatever she may say.
flower
mother holding crying child
Whatis it that makes little Emily 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! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play?Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away;But do not be fretful, my darling; you knowMamma cannot love little girls that are so.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 child, but don't fret any more.
two girls dancing in meadow
I'ma 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 flatWith a white and yellow hat.Little Mary, when you passLightly o'er the tender grass,Skip about, but do not treadOn my bright but lowly head,For I always seem to say,"Surely winter's gone away."
mother and toddler under a tree
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 fastNow one pretty little kiss,After such a walk as this.
daffodils
Inan elegant frock, trimm'd with beautiful lace,And hair nicely curl'd, hanging over her face,Young Fanny went out to the house of a friend,With a largelittleparty the evening to spend."Ah! how they will all be delighted, I guess,And stare with surprise at my handsome new dress!"Thus said the vain girl, and her little heart beat,Impatient the happy young party to meet.But, alas! they were all too intent on their playTo observe the fine clothes of this lady so gay,And thus all her trouble quite lost its design;—For they saw she was proud, but forgot she was fine.'Twas Lucy, though only in simple white clad,(Nor trimmings, nor laces, nor jewels, she had,)Whose cheerful good-nature delighted them moreThan Fanny and all the fine garments she wore.'Tis better to have a sweet smile on one's face,Than to wear a fine frock with an elegant lace,For the good-natured girl is loved best in the main,If her dress is but decent, though ever so plain.
boy at bakery cunter
"I thinkI want some pies this morning,"Said Dick, stretching himself and yawning;So down he threw his slate and books,And saunter'd to the pastry-cook's.And there he cast his greedy eyesRound on the jellies and the pies,So to select, with anxious care,The very nicest that was there.At last the point was thus decided:As his opinion was divided'Twixt pie and jelly, being lothEither to leave, he took them both.Now Richard never could be pleasedTo stop when hunger was appeased,But would go on to eat still moreWhen he had had an ample store."No, not another now," said Dick;"Dear me, I feel extremely sick:I cannot even eat this bit;I wish I had not tasted it."Then slowly rising from his seat,He threw his cheesecake in the street,And left the tempting pastry-cook'sWith very discontented looks.Just then a man with wooden legMet Dick, and held his hat to beg;And while he told his mournful case,Look'd at him with imploring face.Dick, wishing to relieve his pain,His pockets search'd, but search'd in vain;And so at last he did declare,He had not left a farthing there.The beggar turn'd with face of grief,And look of patient unbelief,While Richard now his folly blamed,And felt both sorry and ashamed."I wish," said he (but wishing's vain),"I had my money back again,And had not spent my last, to payFor what I only threw away."Another time I'll take advice,And not buy things because they're nice;But rather save my little store,To give to those who want it more."
pie
three children
"Ah!don't you remember, 'tis almost December,And soon will the holidays come;Oh, 'twill be so funny, I've plenty of money,I'll buy me a sword and a drum."Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry,Impatient from school to depart;But we shall discover, this holiday loverKnew little what was in his heart.For when on returning, he gave up his learning,Away from his sums and his books,Though playthings surrounded, and sweetmeats abounded,Chagrin still appear'd in his looks.Though first they delighted, his toys were now slighted,And thrown away out of his sight;He spent every morning in stretching and yawning,Yet went to bed weary at night.He had not that treasure which really makes pleasure,(A secret discover'd by few).You'll take it for granted, more playthings he wanted;Oh no—it was something to do.We must have employment to give us enjoymentAnd pass the time cheerfully away;And study and reading give pleasure, exceedingThe pleasures of toys and of play.To school now returning—to study and learningWith eagerness Harry applied;He felt no aversion to books or exertion,Nor yet for the holidays sigh'd.
ball and a badmitton birdie
Onthe cheerful village green,Skirted round with houses small,All the boys and girls are seen,Playing there with hoop and ball.Now they frolic hand in hand,Making many a merry chain;Then they form a warlike band,Marching o'er the level plain.Now ascends the worsted ball,High it rises in the air,Or against the cottage wall,Up and down it bounces there.Then the hoop, with even pace,Runs before the merry throngs;Joy is seen in every face,Joy is heard in cheerful songs.
group of children
Rich array, and mansions proud,Gilded toys, and costly fare,Would not make the little crowdHalf so happy as they are.Then, contented with my state,Where true pleasure may be seenLet me envy not the great,On a cheerful village green.
pitcher with two pansies in it
Letthose who're fond of idle tricks,Of throwing stones, and hurling bricks,And all that sort of fun,Now hear a tale of idle Jim,That warning they may take by him,Nor do as he has done.In harmless sport or healthful playHe did not pass his time away,Nor took his pleasure in it;For mischief was his only joy:No book, or work, or even toy,Could please him for a minute.A neighbour's house he'd slyly pass,And throw a stone to break the glass,And then enjoy the joke!Or, if a window open stood,He'd throw in stones, or bits of wood,To frighten all the folk.If travellers passing chanced to stay,Of idle Jim to ask the way,He never told them right;And then, quite harden'd in his sin,Rejoiced to see them taken in,And laugh'd with all his might.He'd tie a string across the street,Just to entangle people's feet,And make them tumble down:Indeed, he was disliked so much,That no good boy would play with suchA nuisance to the town.At last the neighbours, in despair,This mischief would no longer bear:And so—to end the tale,This lad, to cure him of his ways,Was sent to spend some dismal daysWithin the county jail.
cherries
Go, go, my naughty girl, and kissYour little sister dear;I must not have such things as this,And noisy quarrels here.
Mother and two children in parlor
What! little children scratch and fight,That ought to be so mild;Oh! Mary, it's a shocking sightTo see an angry child.I can't imagine, for my part,The reason of your folly;She did not do you any hurtBy playing with your dolly.See, see, the little tears that runFast from her watery 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 playTo such a pet as this is.
Apple blossom
OldJohn had an apple-tree, healthy and green,Which bore the best codlins that ever were seen,So juicy, so mellow, and red;And when they were ripe, he disposed of his store,To children or any who pass'd by his door,To buy him a morsel of bread.Little Dick, his next neighbour, one often might see,With longing eye viewing this fine apple-tree,And wishing a codlin might fall:One day as he stood in the heat of the sun,He began thinking whether he might not take one,And then he look'd over the wall.And as he again cast his eye on the tree,He said to himself, "Oh, how nice they would be,So cool and refreshing to-day!The tree is so full, and one only I'll take,And John cannot see if I give it a shake,And nobody is in the way."But stop, little boy, take your hand from the bough,Remember, though John cannot see you just now,And no one to chide you is nigh,There is One, who by night, just as well as by day,Can see all you do, and can hear all you say,From his glorious throne in the sky.O then little boy, come away from the tree,Lest tempted to this wicked act you should be:'Twere better to starve than to steal;For the greatGod, who even through darkness can look,Writes down every crime we commit, in His book;Nor forgets what we try to conceal.
apples
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious punctuation errors repaired.Page 10, blank line placed before the stanza beginning (Come, walk in our garden)
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 10, blank line placed before the stanza beginning (Come, walk in our garden)