Poem – The Vulgar Little Lady

“But, mamma, now, ” said Charlotte, “pray, don’t you believe
That 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 you
Because I’m a lady, you know.

“Then, servants are vulgar, and I am genteel;
So really, ’tis out of the way,
To think that I should not be better a deal
Than maids, and such people as they. ”

“Gentility, Charlotte,” her mother replied,
“Belongs to no station or place;
And there’s nothing so vulgar as folly and pride,
Though dress’d in red slippers and lace.

Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess
Should teach them the poor to despise;
For ’tis in good manners, and not in good dress,
That the truest gentility lies.”

Poem – The Gaudy Flower

WHY does my Anna toss her head,
And look so scornfully around,
As if she scarcely deign’d to tread
Upon the daisy-dappled ground?

Does fancied beauty fire thine eye,
The brilliant tint, the satin skin?
Does the loved glass, in passing by,
Reflect a graceful form and thin?

Alas! that form, and brilliant fire,
Will never win beholder’s love;
It may, indeed, make fools admire,
But ne’er the wise and good can move.

So grows the tulip, gay and bold,
The broadest sunshine its delight;
Like rubies, or like burnish’d gold,
It shows its petals, glossy bright.

But who the gaudy floweret crops,
As if to court a sweet perfume!
Admired it blows, neglected drops,
And sinks unheeded to its doom.

The virtues of the heart may move
Affections of a genial kind;
While beauty fails to stir our love,
And wins the eye, but not the mind.

Poem – The Holidays

‘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 lover
Knew 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 enjoyment
And pass the time cheerfully away;
And study and reading give pleasure, exceeding
The pleasures of toys and of play.

To school now returning–to study and learning
With eagerness Harry applied;
He felt no aversion to books or exertion,
Nor yet for the holidays sigh’d.

Poem – Little Girls must not Fret

WHAT is 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 know

Mamma 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. 

Poem – A True Story

Little Ann and her mother were walking one day

Through London’s wide city so fair,

And business obliged them to go by the way

That led them through Cavendish Square. 

And as they pass’d by the great house of a Lord,

A beautiful chariot there came,

To take some most elegant ladies abroad, 

Who straightway got into the same. 
The ladies in feathers and jewels were seen,

The chariot was painted all o’er, 

The footmen behind were in silver and green,

The horses were prancing before. 
Little Ann by her mother walk’d silent and sad,

A tear trickled down from her eye, 

Till her mother said, “Ann, I should be very glad

To know what it is makes you cry. ” 
“Mamma,” said the child, “see that carriage so fair, 

All cover’d with varnish and gold, 

Those ladies are riding so charmingly there

While we have to walk in the cold. 
“You say GOD is kind to the folks that are good,

But surely it cannot be true; 

Or else I am certain, almost, that He would

Give such a fine carriage to you. ” 
“Look there, little girl,” said her mother, “and see

What stands at that very coach door;

A poor ragged beggar, and listen how she

A halfpenny tries to implore. 
“All pale is her face, and deep sunk is her eye,

And her hands look like skeleton’s bones;

She has got a few rags, just about her to tie,

And her naked feet bleed on the stones. ” 
‘Dear ladies,’ she cries, and the tears trickle down, 

‘Relieve a poor beggar, I pray;

I’ve wander’d all hungry about this wide town,

And not ate a morsel to-day. 
‘My father and mother are long ago dead,

My brother sails over the sea, 

And I’ve scarcely a rag, or a morsel of bread,

As plainly, I’m sure, you may see. 
‘A fever I caught, which was terrible bad, 

But no nurse or physic had I; 

An old dirty shed was the house that I had,

And only on straw could I lie. 
‘And now that I’m better, yet feeble and faint, 

And famish’d, and naked, and cold,

I wander about with my grievous complaint, 

And seldom get aught but a scold. 
‘Some will not attend to my pitiful call,

Some think me a vagabond cheat;

And scarcely a creature relieves me, of all

The thousands that traverse the street. 
‘Then ladies, dear ladies, your pity bestow:’­

Just then a tall footman came round,

And asking the ladies which way they would go,

The chariot turn’d off with a bound. 
“Ah! see, little girl,” then her mother replied,

“How foolish those murmurs have been;

You have but to look on the contrary side,

To learn both your folly and sin. 
“This poor little beggar is hungry and cold,

No mother awaits her return;

And while such an object as this you behold,

Your heart should with gratitude burn. 
“Your house and its comforts, your food and your friends,

‘Tis favour in GOD to confer, 

Have you any claim to the bounty He sends, 

Who makes you to differ from her? 
“A coach, and a footman, and gaudy attire,

Give little true joy to the breast; 

To be good is the thing you should chiefly desire,

And then leave to GOD all the rest. ” 

Poem – Meddlesome Matty

One ugly trick has often spoil’d

The sweetest and the best; 

Matilda, though a pleasant child, 

One ugly trick possess’d, 

Which, like a cloud before the skies, 

Hid all her better qualities. 
Sometimes she’d lift the tea-pot lid, 

To peep at what was in it, 

Or tilt the kettle, if you did 

But turn your back a minute. 

In vain you told her not to touch,

Her trick of meddling grew so much. 
Her grandmamma went out one day,

And by mistake she laid

Her spectacles and snuff-box gay

Too near the little maid; 

“Ah! well,” thought she, “I’ll try them on, 

As soon as grandmamma is gone. ” 
Forthwith she placed upon her nose

The glasses large and wide; 

And looking round, as I suppose, 

The snuff-box too she spied: 

“Oh! what a pretty box is that; 

I’ll open it,” said little Matt. 
“I know that grandmamma would say,

‘Don’t meddle with it, dear;’

But then, she’s far enough away, 

And no one else is near: 

Besides, what can there be amiss

In opening such a box as this? ” 
So thumb and finger went to work 

To move the stubborn lid,

And presently a mighty jerk

The mighty mischief did; 

For all at once, ah! woful case, 

The snuff came puffing in her face. 
Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth, beside

A dismal sight presented; 

In vain, as bitterly she cried, 

Her folly she repented. 

In vain she ran about for ease; 

She could do nothing now but sneeze. 
She dash’d the spectacles away, 

To wipe her tingling eyes, 

And as in twenty bits they lay, 

Her grandmamma she spies. 

“Heyday! and what’s the matter now?”

Says grandmamma, with lifted brow. 
Matilda, smarting with the pain, 

And tingling still, and sore,

Made many a promise to refrain

From meddling evermore. 

And ’tis a fact, as I have heard, 

She ever since has kept her word. 

Poem – The Baby’s Dance

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;

Dance little baby, and mother shall sing,

With the merry coral, ding, ding, ding.