Thank you, pretty cow, that made

Pleasant milk to soak my bread,

Ev’ry day, and ev’ry 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 will make it very sweet.

Where the purple violet grows,

Where the bubbling water flows,

Where the grass is fresh and fine,

Pretty cow, go there and dine.

Baby, baby, lay your head

On your pretty cradle-bed;

Shut your eye-peeps, now the day

And the light are gone away;

All the clothes are tuck’d in tight;

Little baby dear, good night.

Yes, my darling, well I know

How the bitter wind doth blow;

And the winter’s snow and rain,

Patter on the window-pane;

But they cannot come in here,

To my little baby dear.

For the curtains warm are spread

Round about her cradle-bed;

And her little nightcap hides

Ev’ry breath of air besides:

So, till morning shineth bright,

Little baby dear, good night.

Baby, baby, ope your eye,

For the sun is in the sky,

And he’s peeping once again

Through the frosty window-pane;

Little baby, do not keep

Any longer fast asleep.

There now, sit in mother’s lap,

That she may untie your cap:

For the little strings have got

Twisted into such a knot:

Ah! for shame, you’ve been at play

With the bobbin, as you lay.

There it comes, now let us see

Where your petticoats can be:

Oh! they’re in the window-seat,

Folded very smooth and neat:

When my baby older grows,

She shall double up her clothes.

Now one pretty little kiss,

For dressing you so nice as this;

And, before we go down stairs,

Don’t forget to say your pray’rs;

For ’tis God who loves to keep

Little babies while they sleep.

What a little thing am I!

  Hardly higher than the table;

I can eat, and play, and cry,

  But to work I am not able.

Nothing in the world I know,

  But mamma will try and show me:

Sweet mamma, I love her so,

  She’s so very kind unto me.

And she sets me on her knee

  Very often, for some kisses:

Oh! how good I’ll try to be.

  For such a dear mamma as this is.

Hop about, pretty sparrows, and pick up the hay,

  And the twigs, and the wool, and the moss;

Indeed, I’ll stand far enough out of your way,

  Don’t fly from the window so cross.

I don’t mean to catch you, you dear little Dick,

  And fasten you up in a cage;

To hop all day long on a straight bit of stick,

  Or to flutter about in a rage.

I only just want to stand by you and see

  How you gather the twigs for your house;

Or sit at the foot of the jenneting tree,

  While you twitter a song in the boughs.

Oh dear, if you’d eat a crumb out of my hand,

  How happy and glad I should be!

Then come, pretty bird, while I quietly stand

  At the foot of the jenneting tree.

Love, come and sit upon my knee,

And give me kisses, one, two, three,

And tell me whether you love me,

                                My baby.

For this I’m sure, that I love you,

And many, many things I do,

And all day long I sit and sew

                                For baby.

And then at night I lie awake,

Thinking of things that I can make,

And trouble that I mean to take

                                For baby.

And when you’re good and do not cry,

Nor into wicked passions fly,

You can’t think how papa and I

                                Love baby.

But if my little girl should grow

To be a naughty child, I know

’Twould grieve mamma to serve her so,

                                My baby.

And when you saw me pale and thin,

By grieving for my baby’s sin,

I think you’d wish that you had been

                            A better baby.

Come, my darling, come away,

Take a pretty walk to-day;

Run along, and never fear,

I’ll take care of baby dear:

Up and down with little feet,

That’s the way to walk, my sweet.

Now it is so very near,

Soon she’ll get to mother dear.

There she comes along at last:

Here’s my finger, hold it fast;

Now one pretty little kiss,

After such a walk as this.

Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss

  Your little sister dear;

I must not have such things as this,

  Nor noisy quarrels here.

What! little children scold and fight,

  That ought to be so mild;

O! Mary, ’tis a shocking sight

  To see an angry child.

I can’t imagine, for my part,

  The reason of your folly,

As if she did you any hurt

  By playing with your dolly.

See, how the little tears do run

  Fast from her wat’ry eye:

Come, my sweet innocent, have done,

  ’Twill do no good to cry.

Go, Mary, wipe her tears away,

  And make it up with kisses;

And never turn a pretty play

  To such a pet as this is.

There, go to sleep, Dolly, in own mother’s lap;

I’ve put on your night-gown and neat little cap;

So sleep, pretty baby, and shut up your eye,

Bye bye, little Dolly, lie still, and bye bye.

I’ll lay my clean handkerchief over your head,

And then make believe that my lap is your bed;

So hush, little dear, and be sure you don’t cry:

Bye bye, little Dolly, lie still, and bye bye.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is gone,

When he nothing shines upon,

Then you show your little light,

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the trav’ller in the dark,

Thanks you for your tiny spark:

He could not see which way to go,

If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,

And often through my curtains peep,

For you never shut your eye

Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark

Lights the trav’ller in the dark,

Though I know not what you are,

Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Little sister, come away,

And let us in the garden play,

For it is a pleasant day.

On the grass-plat let us sit,

Or, if you please, we’ll play a bit.

And run about all over it.

But the fruit we will not pick,

For that would be a naughty trick,

And, very likely, make us sick.

Nor will we pluck the pretty flow’rs

That grow about the beds and bow’rs,

Because, you know, they are not ours.

We’ll pluck the daisies white and red,

Because mamma has often said,

That we may gather them instead.

And much I hope we always may

Our very dear mamma obey,

And mind whatever she may say.

Here’s a pretty gay book, full of verses to sing,

But Lucy can’t read it; oh! what a sad thing!

And such funny stories—and pictures too—look!

I am glad I can read such a beautiful book.

But come, little Lucy, now what do you say,

Shall I begin teaching you pretty great A?

And then all the letters that stand in a row,

That you may be able to read it, you know?

A great many children have no good mamma,

To teach them to read, and poor children they are;

But Lucy shall learn all her letters to tell,

And I hope by and by she will read very well.

No, naughty Growler, get away,

  You shall not have a bit;

Now, when I speak, how dare you stay?

I can’t spare any, Sir, I say,

  And so you need not sit.

Poor Growler! do not make him go,

  But recollect, before,

That he has never served you so,

For you have giv’n him many a blow,

  That patiently he bore.

Poor Growler, if he could but speak,

  He’d tell (as well he might)

How he would bear with many a freak,

And wag his tail, and look so meek,

  And neither bark nor bite.

Upon his back he lets you ride,

  And drive about the yard:

And now, while sitting by your side,

To have a bit of bread denied,

  Is really very hard.

And all your little tricks he’ll bear,

  And never seem to mind;

And yet you say you cannot spare

One bit of breakfast for his share,

  Although he is so kind.

When I go in the meadows, or walk in the street,

Very often a many poor children I meet,

Without shoes or stockings to cover their feet.

Their clothes are all ragged, and let in the cold;

And they have very little to eat, I am told:

Oh dear! ’tis a pitiful sight to behold.

And then, what is worse, very often they are

Quite naughty and wicked: I never can bear

To hear how they quarrel together and swear.

For often they use naughty words in their play;

And I might have been quite as wicked as they,

Had I not been taught better, I’ve heard mamma say.

Oh, how very thankful I always should be,

That I have kind parents to watch over me,

Who teach me from wickedness ever to flee!

And as mamma tells me, I certainly should

Mind all that is taught me, and be very good,

For if those poor children knew better—they would.

Come, here are a slate, and a pencil, and string,

So now sit you down, dear, and draw pretty thing;

A man, and a cow, and a horse, and a tree,

And when you have finish’d, pray show them to me.

What! cannot you do it? Shall I show you how?

Come, give me your pencil, I’ll draw you a cow.

You’ve made the poor creature look very forlorn!

She has but three legs, dear, and only one horn.

Now look, I have drawn you a beautiful cow;

And see, here’s a dicky-bird, perch’d on a bough,

And here are some more flying down from above:

There now, is not that very pretty, my love?

O yes, very pretty! now make me some more,

A house with a gate, and a window, and door,

And a little boy flying his kite with a string:

Oh, thank you, mamma, now I’ll draw pretty thing.

Come here to papa, and I’ll tell my dear boy,

  (For I think he would never have guess’d,)

How many poor animals we must employ,

  Before little Charles can be dress’d.

The pretty sheep gives you the wool from his sides,

  To make you a jacket to use:

And the dog or the seal must be stript of their hides,

  To give you a couple of shoes.

And then the grey rabbit contributes his share:

  He helps to provide you a hat;

For this must be made of his delicate hair,

  And so you may thank him for that.

And many poor animals suffer besides,

  And each of them give us a share,

Pull off their warm clothing, or give us their hides,

  That we may have plenty to wear.

Then as the poor creatures are suffer’d to give

  So much for the comfort of man,

I think ’tis but right, that, as long as they live,

  We should do all for them that we can.

What is it that makes little Harriet 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! baby is sleepy and tired with play?

Come, Betty, make haste, then, and fetch her away;

But do not be fretful, my darling, because

Mamma cannot love little girls that are cross.

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 girl, but don’t fret any more.

The cow has a horn, and the fish has a gill;

The horse has a hoof, and the duck has a bill;

The bird has a wing, that on high he may sail;

And the lion a mane, and the monkey a tail;

And they swim, or they fly, or they walk, or they eat,

With fin, or with wing, or with bill, or with feet.

And Charles has two hands, with five fingers to each,

On purpose to work with, to hold and to reach;

No birds, beasts, or fishes, for work or for play,

Have any thing half so convenient as they:

But if he don’t use them, and keep them in use,

He’d better have had but two legs, like a goose.

Here’s my baby’s bread and milk,

For her lip as soft as silk;

Here’s the basin clean and neat,

Here’s the spoon of silver sweet,

Here’s the stool, and here’s the chair,

For my little lady fair.

No, you must not spill it out,

And drop the bread and milk about;

But let it stand before you flat,

And pray remember pussy-cat:

Poor old pussy-cat, that purrs

All so patiently for hers.

True, she runs about the house,

Catching, now and then, a mouse;

But, though she thinks it very nice,

That only makes a tiny slice:

So don’t forget that you should stop,

And leave poor puss a little drop.