Rhymes for the nursery

There was a poor widow, who lived in a cot,

She scarcely a blanket to warm her had got,

Her windows were broken, her walls were all bare,

And the cold winter-wind often whistled in there.

Poor Susan was old, and too feeble to spin,

Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin;

And she must have starved, as so many have done,

If she had not been bless’d with a good little son.

But he loved her well, like a dutiful lad;

He thought her the very best friend that he had;

And now to neglect or forsake her, he knew,

Was the most wicked thing he could possibly do.

For he was quite healthy, and active, and stout,

While his poor mother hardly could hobble about,

And he thought it his duty and greatest delight,

To work for her living from morning to night.

So he went ev’ry morning, as gay as a lark,

And work’d all day long in the fields till ’twas dark,

Then came home again to his dear mother’s cot,

And joyfully gave her the wages he got.

And oh, how she loved him! how great was her joy!

To think her dear Jem was a dutiful boy:

Her arm round his neck she would tenderly cast,

And kiss his red cheek, while the tears trickled fast.

Oh, then, was not little Jem happier far,

Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are?

For, as long as he lived, ’twas his comfort and joy,

To think he’d not been an undutiful boy.

It is such a beautiful day,

  And the sun shines so bright and so warm,

That the little ants, busy and gay,

  Are come from their holes in a swarm.

All the winter together they sleep,

  Or in underground passages run.

Not one of them daring to peep,

  To see the bright face of the sun.

But the snow is now melted away,

  And the trees are all cover’d with green;

And the little ants, busy and gay,

  Creeping out from their houses are seen.

They’ve left us no room to go by,

  So we’ll step aside on to the grass,

For a hundred poor insects might die.

  Under your little feet as they pass.

I do not like to go to bed,

Sleepy little Harry said,

So, naughty Betty, go away,

I will not come at all, I say.

Oh, what a silly little fellow!

I should be quite ashamed to tell her;

Then, Betty, you must come and carry

This very foolish little Harry.

The little birds are better taught,

They go to roosting when they ought;

And all the ducks and fowls, you know,

They went to bed an hour ago.

The little beggar in the street,

Who wanders with his naked feet,

And has not where to lay his head,

Oh, he’d be glad to go to bed.

Down upon my pillow warm,

  I do lay my little head,

And the rain, and wind, and storm,

  Cannot come a-nigh my bed.

Many little children poor,

  Have not any where to go,

And sad hardships they endure,

  Such as I did never know.

Dear mamma, I’ll thank you oft,

  For this comfortable bed,

And this pretty pillow soft,

  Where I rest my little head.

I shall sleep till morning light,

  On a bed so nice as this;

So, my dear mamma, good night,

  Give your little girl a kiss.

Oh, Mary, this will never do!

  This work is sadly done, my dear,

And such a little of it too,

  You have not taken pains, I fear.

Oh! no, your work has been forgotten,

  Indeed you’ve hardly thought of that;

I saw you roll your ball of cotton

  About the floor to please the cat.

See, here are stitches straggling wide,

  And others reaching down so far;

I’m very sure you have not tried

  At all to-day to please mamma.

The little girl who will not sew,

  Should neither be allow’d to play;

But then I hope, my love, that you

  Will take more pains another day.

I’m a little gentleman,

Play, and ride, and dance I can:

Very handsome clothes I wear,

And I live on dainty fare:

And whenever out I ride,

I’ve a servant by my side.

And I never, all the day,

Need do any thing but play,

Nor even soil my little hand,

Because I am so very grand:

Oh! I’m very glad, I’m sure,

I need not labour, like the poor.

For I think I could not bear

Such old shabby clothes to wear;

To lie upon so hard a bed,

And only live on barley bread;

And what is worse, too, ev’ry day

To have to work as hard as they.

I’m a little husbandman,

Work and labour hard I can:

I’m as happy all the day

At my work, as if ’twere play:

Tho’ I’ve nothing fine to wear.

Yet for that I do not care.

When to work I go along,

Singing loud my morning song,

With my wallet at my back,

Or my waggon-whip to smack;

Oh, I am as happy then,

As the idle gentlemen.

I’ve a hearty appetite,

And I soundly sleep at night.

Down I lie content, and say,

“I’ve been useful all the day:

I’d rather be a plough-boy, than

A useless little gentleman.”

I’m a very little child,

  Only just have learn’d to speak;

So I should be very mild,

  Very tractable and meek.

If my dear mamma were gone,

  I should perish soon, and die,

When she left me all alone,

  Such a little thing as I!

Oh, what service can I do,

  To repay her for her care;

For I cannot even sew,

  Nor make any thing I wear.

Oh then, I will always try

  To be very good and mild;

Never now be cross and cry,

  Like a little fretful child.

For I often cry and fret,

  And my dear mamma I tease;

Often vex her, while I sit

  Dandled pretty on her knees.

Oh, how can I serve her so,

  Such a good mamma as this!

Round her neck my arms I’ll throw,

  And her gentle cheek I’ll kiss.

Then I’ll tell her, that I will

  Try not any more to fret her;

And as I grow older still,

  I hope that I shall serve her better.

Little Harry, come along,

And mamma will sing a song,

All about a naughty lad,

Though a mother kind he had.

He never minded what she said,

But only laugh’d at her instead;

And then did just the same, I’ve heard,

As if she had not said a word.

He would not learn to read his book,

But wisdom’s pleasant way forsook;

With wicked boys he took delight,

And learnt to quarrel and to fight.

And when he saw his mother cry,

And heard her heave a bitter sigh,

To think she’d such a wicked son,

He never cared for what he’d done.

I hope my little Harry will

Mind all I say, and love me still;

For ’tis his mother’s greatest joy,

To think he’s not a wicked boy.

I see an old man sitting there,

His wither’d limbs are almost bare,

And very hoary is his hair.

Old man, why are you sitting so?

For very cold the wind doth blow:

Why don’t you to your cottage go?

Ah, master, in the world so wide,

I have no home wherein to hide,

No comfortable fire-side.

When I, like you, was young and gay,

I’ll tell you what I used to say,

That I would nothing do but play.

And so, instead of being taught

Some useful business, as I ought,

To play about was all I sought.

And now that I am old and grey,

I wander on my lonely way,

And beg my bread from day to day.

Why, here’s a foolish little man,

Laugh at him, Donkey, if you can;

And cat, and dog, and cow, and calf,

Come, ev’ry one of you and laugh:

For, only think, he runs away

If honest Donkey does but bray!

And when the bull begins to bellow,

He’s like a crazy little fellow!

Poor Brindle cow can hardly pass

Along the hedge, to nip the grass,

Or wag her tail to lash the flies,

But off the little booby hies!

And when old Tray comes running too,

With, bow, wow, wow, for how d’ye do,

And means it all for civil play,

’Tis sure to make him run away!

But all the while you’re thinking, may be,

“Ah! well, but this must be a baby.”

Oh! cat, and dog, and cow, and calf,

I’m not surprised to see you laugh,

He’s five years old, and almost half.

Lazy sheep, pray tell me why

In the pleasant fields you lie,

Eating grass and daisies white.

From the morning till the night?

Every thing can something do,

But what kind of use are you?

Nay, my little master, nay,

Do not serve me so, I pray:

Don’t you see the wool that grows

On my back, to make you clothes?

Cold, and very cold you’d get,

If I did not give you it.

True, it seems a pleasant thing

To nip the daisies in the spring;

But many chilly nights I pass

On the cold and dewy grass,

Or pick a scanty dinner, where

All the common’s brown and bare.

Then the farmer comes at last,

When the merry spring is past,

And cuts my woolly coat away,

To warm you in the winter’s day:

Little master, this is why

In the pleasant fields I lie.

Ah! why’s my poor fellow so pale?

  And why do the little tears fall?

Come, tell me, love, what do you ail,

  And mother shall cure him of all.

There, lay your white cheek on my lap,

  With your pinafore over your head,

And, perhaps, when you’ve taken a nap,

  Again your white cheek may be red.

Oh! no, don’t be kind to me yet:

  I do not deserve to be kiss’d;

Some gooseb’ries and currants I eat,

  For I thought that they would not be miss’d:

And so, when you left me alone,

  I took them, although they were green!

But is it not better to own

  What a sad naughty boy I have been?

Oh! yes, I am sorry to hear

  The thing that my Richard has done;

But as you have own’d it, my dear,

  You have not made two faults of one:

Be sure that you never again

  Forget that God watches your way,

And patiently bear with your pain,

  That does but your folly repay.

Why is my silly girl so vain,

Looking in the glass again?

For the meekest flower of spring

Is a gayer little thing.

Is your merry eye so blue,

As the violet, wet with dew!

Yet it loves the best to hide

By the hedge’s shady side.

Is your bosom half so fair

As the modest lilies are?

Yet their little bells are hung,

Broad and shady leaves among.

When your cheek the warmest glows,

Is it redder than the rose?

But its sweetest buds are seen

Almost hid with moss and green.

Little flow’rs that open gay,

Peeping forth at break of day,

In the garden, hedge, or plain,

Have more reason to be vain.

What! go to see the kittens drown’d,

  On purpose, in the yard!

I did not think there could be found

  A little heart so hard.

Poor kittens! no more pretty play

  With pussy’s wagging tail:

Oh! I’d go far enough away,

  Before I’d see the pail.

No mother kind, nor pleasant bed,

  Nor merry games again!

But there to struggle till you’re dead,

  And mew with bitter pain.

Poor things! the little child that can

  Be pleased to look and see,

Most likely, when he grows a man,

  A cruel man will be.

And many a wicked thing he’ll do,

  Because his heart is hard;

A great deal worse than killing you,

  Poor kittens, in the yard.

Come here, I’ve got a piece of rag,

To make you quite a pretty bag;

Not make believe—no, no, you’ll see

The clever bag that it shall be.

And when ’tis done, I’ll show you what

A handsome present I have got:

A needle-book, and scissors too,

Right earnest ones, and all for you.

And then, you know, you’ll keep them in it,

So that you need not lose a minute,

In hunting up and down to say,

“Where can my scissors be to-day?”

“Pray, somebody, do try and look,

To find my thread and needle-book;”

No, no, but—“I know where they are.

They’re in my little work-bag there.”

I think I should like to be happy to-day,

If I could but tell which was the easiest way:

But then, I don’t know any pretty new play:

And as to the old ones—why, which is the best?

There’s fine hot boil’d beans, whoop and hide, and the rest;

Or make-believe tea-time, with all my dolls drest.

But no—let me see, now I’ve thought of a way,

That really I think will be better than play,

I’ll try to be good, if I can, the whole day.

No passion, no pouting, no crying: no, no,

They make me unhappy wherever I go,

And it would be a pity to spoil a day so.

I don’t choose to be such a baby, not I,

To quarrel, and sulk, and be naughty, and cry,

So now I’ll begin, for at least I can try.

Dear kitten, do lie still, I say,

  For much I want you to be quiet,

Instead of scampering away,

  And always making such a riot.

There, only see, you’ve torn my frock,

  And poor mamma must put a patch in;

I’ll give you a right earnest knock,

  To cure you of this trick of scratching.

Nay, do not scold your little cat,

  She does not know what ’tis you’re saying;

And ev’ry time you give a pat,

  She thinks you mean it all for playing.

But if your pussy understood

  The lesson that you want to teach her,

And did not choose to be so good,

  She’d be, indeed, a naughty creature.

Who am I with noble face,

Shining in a clear blue place?

If to look at me you try,

I shall blind your little eye.

When my noble face I shew,

Over yonder mountain blue,

All the clouds away do ride,

And the dusky night beside.

Then the clear wet dews I dry,

With the look of my bright eye;

And the little birds awake,

Many a merry tune to make.

Cowslips then, and hare-bells blue,

And lily-cups their leaves undo,

For they shut themselves up tight,

All the dark and foggy night.

Then the busy people go,

Every one his work unto;

Little girl, when yours is done,

Guess, if I am not the sun.

Who am I that shine so bright,

With my pretty yellow light;

Peeping through your curtains grey?

Tell me, little girl, I pray.

When the sun is gone, I rise

In the very silent skies;

And a cloud or two doth skim

Round about my silver rim.

All the little stars do seem

Hidden by my brighter beam;

And among them I do ride,

Like a queen in all her pride.

Then the reaper goes along,

Singing forth a merry song,

While I light the shaking leaves,

And the yellow harvest sheaves.

A little bird built a warm nest in a tree,

And laid some blue eggs in it, one, two, and three,

And then very glad and delighted was she.

So, after a while, but how long I can’t tell,

The little ones crept, one by one, from the shell;

And their mother was pleased, and she loved them well.

She spread her soft wings on them all the day long,

To warm and to guard them, her love was so strong;

And her mate sat beside her and sung her a song.

One day the young birds were all crying for food,

So off flew their mother away from her brood;

And up came some boys who were wicked and rude.

So they pull’d the warm nest down away from the tree;

And the little ones cried, but they could not get free;

So at last they all died away, one, two, and three.

But when back again the poor mother did fly,

Oh, then she set up a most pitiful cry!

So she mourn’d a long while, and then lay down to die!

Now the spring is coming on,

Now the snow and ice are gone,

Come, my little snow-drop root,

Will you not begin to shoot?

Ah! I see your little head

Peeping on my flower-bed,

Looking all so green and gay

On this fine and pleasant day.

For the mild south wind doth blow,

And hath melted all the snow,

And the sun shines out so warm,

You need not fear another storm.

So your pretty flower shew,

And your leaves of white undo,

Then you’ll hang your modest head,

Down upon my flower-bed.

Why now, my dear boys, this is always the way,

You can’t be contented with innocent play,

But this sort of romping, so noisy and high,

Is never left off till it ends in a cry.

What! are there no games you can take a delight in,

But kicking, and knocking, and boxing, and fighting?

It is a sad thing to be forced to conclude

That boys can’t be merry, without being rude.

Now what is the reason you never can play,

Without snatching each other’s playthings away?

Would it be any hardship to let them alone,

When ev’ry one of you has toys of his own?

I often have told you before, my dear boys,

That I do not object to your making a noise;

Or running and jumping about any how,

But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.

So, if any more of these quarrels are heard,

I tell you this once, and I’ll keep to my word,

I’ll take ev’ry marble, and spintop, and ball,

And not let you play with each other at all.

Well, now I will sit down, and work very fast,

And try if I can’t be a good girl at last:

’Tis better than being so sulky and haughty,

I’m really quite tired of being so naughty.

For, as mamma says, when my bus’ness is done,

There’s plenty of time left to play and to run:

But when ’tis my work-time, I ought to sit still,

I know that I ought, and I certainly will.

But for fear, after all, I should get at my play,

I’ll put my wax-doll in the closet away;

And I’ll not look to see what the kitten is doing,

Nor yet think of any thing now but my sewing.

I’m sorry I’ve idled so often before,

But I hope I shall never do so any more:

Mamma will be pleased when she sees how I mend,

And have done this long seam from beginning to end!

It happen’d that a little snail

Came crawling, with his slimy tail,

  Upon a cabbage-stalk;

But two more little snails were there,

Both feasting on this dainty fare,

  Engaged in friendly talk.

“No, no, you shall not dine with us;

How dare you interrupt us thus,”

  The greedy snails declare;

So their poor brother they discard,

Who really thinks it very hard

  He may not have his share.

But selfish folks are sure to know

They get no good by being so,

  In earnest or in play;

Which these two snails confess’d, no doubt,

When soon the gardener spied them out,

  And threw them both away.