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.