Poem – Jane And Eliza

There were 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 to break her bad habits, but only to hide.

So when she was out, with much labour and pain,
She contrived to look almost a 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 obtain
The affection that freely was given to Jane.

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 – 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 – 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. 

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. 

Poem – The Little Negro – Ann Taylor

Ah! the poor little blackamoor, see there he goes, 

And the blood gushes out from his half frozen toes, 

And his legs are so thin you may see the very bones, 

As he goes shiver, shiver, on the sharp cutting stones. 
He was once a negro boy, and a merry boy was he, 

Playing outlandish plays, by the tall palm tree; 

Or bathing in the river, like a brisk water rat, 

And at night sleeping sound, on a little bit of mat. 

But there came some wicked people, and they stole him far away, 

And then good bye to palm-tree tall, and merry merry play; 

For they took him from his house and home, and ev’ry body dear, 

And now, poor little negro boy, he’s come a begging here. 

And fie upon the wicked folks who did this cruel thing! 

I wish some mighty nobleman would go and tell the king; 

For to steal him from his house and home must be a crying sin, 

Though he was a little negro boy, and had a sooty skin.

Poem – The Cow – Ann Taylor

Thank you, pretty cow, that made 

Pleasant 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 to dine.

Poem – The Washing And Dressing – Ann Taylor

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.

Poem – The Spider – Ann Taylor

‘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 it hurt you, 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. 
‘For them to fear us we must grant to be just, 

Who in less than a moment can tread them to dust; 

But certainly we have 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 see 

What 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. ‘

Poem -Negligent Mary – Ann Taylor

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 is dolly to 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 strive 

To check every fault that I see: 

Mary’s doll is but waxen–mamma’s is alive, 

And of far more importance than she.

Poem – Greedy Richard – Ann Taylor

‘I THINK I 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 eyes 

Round 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 loth 

Either to leave, he took them both. 
Now Richard never could be pleased 

To stop when hunger was appeased, 

But would go on to eat still more 

When 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 slowing rising from his seat, 

He threw his cheesecake in the street, 

And left the tempting pastry-cook’s 

With very discontented looks. 
Just then a man with wooden leg 

Met 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 pay 

For 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. ‘

Poem – My Mother – Ann Taylor

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 – The Cow – Ann Taylor

Thank you, pretty cow,

 that made Pleasant 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 to dine.

Poem – My Mother – Ann Taylor

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.
Ann Taylor

Poem – For a Naughty Little Girl – Ann Taylor

My sweet little girl should be cheerful and mild
She must not be fretful and cry!
Oh! why is this passion? remember, my child,
GOD sees 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, though GOD is in Heaven, my love,
He sees you within and without,
And always looks down, from His glory above,
To notice what you are about.

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, that GOD may 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.
Ann Taylor