WASHING AND DRESSING.
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 washed and be drest But would you be dirty and foul? Come, drive that long sob from your dear little breast, And clear your sweet face from its scowl.
If the water is cold, and the comb 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.
THE INDUSTRIOUS BOY.
In a cottage upon the heath wild, That always was cleanly and nice, Liv'd William, a good little child, Who minded his parents' advice.
'Tis true he lov'd marbles and kite, And spin-top, and nine-pins, and ball; But this I declare with delight, His book he loved better than all.
In active and useful employ His youth gayly glided away While rational pleasures and joy Attended his steps every day.
And now let us see him grown up; Still cheerfulness dwelt in his mind, Contentment yet sweeten'd his cup, For still he was active and kind.
His garden well loaded with store, His cot by the side of the green, Where woodbines crept over the door, And jessamines peep'd in between.
These fill'd him with honest delight, And rewarded him well for his toil: He went to bed cheerful at night, And woke in the morn with a smile.
WE ARE SEVEN.
BY WM. WORDSWORTH.
A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death!
I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said, Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair Her beauty made me glad.
Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be? How many? Seven in all, she said, And wondering looked at me.
And where are they? I pray you tell. She answered seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.
Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.
You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you, tell, Sweet maid, how this may be.
Then did the little maid reply, Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree.
You run about, my little maid Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five.
Their graves are green, they may be seen. The little maid replied, Twelve steps or more from mother's door And they are side by side.
The Churchyard.]
My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit-- I sit and sing to them.
And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.
The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away.
So in the churchyard she was laid; And when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.
And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.
How many are you, then, said I, If they two are in Heaven? The little maiden did reply, O master! we are seven.
But they are dead, those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven! 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, Nay, we are seven.
THE IDLE BOY.
Thomas was an idle lad, And loung'd about all day; And though he many a lesson had, He minded nought but play.
He only car'd for top or ball, Or marbles, hoop or kite: But as for learning, that was all Neglected by him quite.
The Idle Boy.]
In vain his mother's kind advice, In vain his master's care; He follow'd ev'ry idle vice, And learnt to curse and swear!
And think you, when he grew a man, He prosper'd in his ways? No; wicked courses never can Bring good and happy days.
Without a shilling in his purse, Or cot to call his own, Poor Thomas grew from bad to worse And harden'd as a stone.
And oh, it grieves me much to write His melancholy end; Then let us leave the dreadful sight, And thoughts of pity send.
But may we this important truth Observe and ever hold: "All those who're idle in their youth Will suffer when they're old."
CASABIANCA.
The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled! The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form.
The flames rolled on--he would not go, Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud--Say, father, say If yet my task is done? He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
Speak, father! once again he cried, If I may yet be gone; And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair,
And shouted but once more aloud, My father! must I stay! While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound: The boy--O, where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea--
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young faithful heart.
Twinkle, twinkle, little Star.
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 traveller 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 traveller in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends