Poem – My Mother 

Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,

And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,

Who gazed upon my heavy eye,

And wept for fear that I should die?

My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray

And love God’s holy book and day,

And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?

My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be

Affectionate and kind to thee,

Who wast so very kind to me,

My Mother?
Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,

And if God please my life to spare

I hope I shall reward they care,

My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old and grey,

My healthy arm shall be thy stay,

And I will soothe thy pains away,

My Mother. 

Poem – Mischief

LET those 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 play

He 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 such

A 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 days

Within the county jail.