Chapter II: Part 2

Then the snow-drop, hanging low
On its green and narrow stalk;
And the crocuses, that blow
Up and down the garden walk:
All these pretty flow’rs we’ll bring,
To make a posy for the spring.

The Summer Nosegay.

Now the yellow cowslips fade,
All along the woody walk;
And the primrose hangs her head
Faintly, on her tiny stalk;
Let us to the garden go,
Where the flow’rs of summer grow.

Come, and make a nosegay there,
Plucking every flower that blows:
Brier sweet, and lily fair,
That along the valley grows;
With a honeysuckle red,
Round the shady arbour led.

Then a budding rose or two,
Half in mossy leaves enroll’d,
With the larkspur red and blue,
Streaky pink, and marigold:
These shall make our posy gay,
In the cheerful summer day.

The Autumn Nosegay.

Now the fog has risen high,
Through the chilly morning air;
And the blue and cheerful sky
Peeps upon us, here and there:
Once again we’ll gather, sweet,
Ev’ry pretty flow’r we meet.

Ah! the yellow leaves are now
Over all the garden spread,
Scatter’d from the naked bough
On the lonely flower-bed;
Where the autumn daisy blue,
Opens, wet with chilly dew.

Lavender, of darksome green,
Shows its purple blossoms near;
And the golden rod is seen,
Shooting up his yellow spear;
These are all that we can find,
In our posy gay to bind.

The Winter Nosegay.

Now the winds of winter blow
Fiercely through the chilly air;
Now the fields are white with snow,
Can we find a posy there?
No, there cannot, all around,
A single blade of grass be found.

Nothing but the holly bright,
Spotted with its berries gay;
Lauristinus, red and white;
Or the ivy’s crooked spray;
With a sloe of darksome blue,
Where the ragged blackthorn grew.

Or the hip of shining red,
Where the wild rose used to grow,
Peeping out its scarlet head,
From beneath a cap of snow;
These are all that dare to stay
Through the cutting winter’s day.
A.T.

The little Lark.

I hear a pretty bird, but hark!
I cannot see it any where:
Oh! it is a little lark,
Singing in the morning air.
Little lark, do tell me why
You are singing in the sky.

Other little birds at rest,
Have not yet begun to sing;
Every one is in its nest,
With its head behind its wing:
Little lark, then, tell me why
You sing so early in the sky.

You look no bigger than a bee,
In the middle of the blue,
Up above the poplar tree;
I can hardly look at you:
Come, little lark, and tell me why
You are mounted up so high.

’Tis to watch the silver star,
Sinking slowly in the skies;
And beyond the mountain far,
To see the glorious sun arise:
Little lady, this is why
I am mounted up so high.

’Tis to sing a merry song,
To the pleasant morning light:
Why linger in my nest so long,
When the sun is shining bright?
Little lady, this is why
I sing so early in the sky.

To the little birds below,
I do sing a merry tune;
And I let the ploughman know
He must come to labour soon.
Little lady, this is why
I am singing in the sky.

The quarrelsome Dogs.

Old Tray and rough Growler are having a fight,
So let us get out of their way;
They snarl, and they growl, and they bark, and they bite!
Oh dear, what a terrible fray!

Why, what foolish fellows? Now, is it not hard
They can’t live together in quiet?
There’s plenty of room for them both in the yard,
And always a plenty of diet.

But who ever said to old Growler and Tray,
It was naughty to quarrel and fight?
They think ’tis as pretty to fight as to play;
Nor know they the wrong from the right.

But when little children, who _know_ it is wrong,
Are angrily fighting away,
A great deal more blame unto them must belong,
Than to quarrelsome Growler and Tray.

The honest Ploughman.

Poor Tom is a husbandman, healthy and strong,
He follows his plough as it hobbles along,
And as he plods after it, sings him a song.

He’s up in the morning before the cock crows,
For he should not be idle, he very well knows;
Tho’ folks who _are_ idle know that, I suppose.

And when the sun sets, and his work is done soon,
He finds his way home by the light of the moon:
She shines in his face, and he whistles a tune.

So when he gets home, (and he never delays,)
And sees his neat cot, and the cheerful wood blaze,
His heart glows within him with pleasure and praise.

’Tis those who won’t work, that mayn’t eat, it is said;
But Tom, with good appetite, takes his brown bread,
And cheerful and happy he goes to his bed.

The great Lord.

A very great lord lives near Thomas’s cot,
Who servants, and coaches, and horses has got;
And yet his poor neighbour Tom envies him not.

For coaches and horses, and delicate food,
Can’t make people happy, unless they are good!
But then he is idle, and wicked, and rude.

He never does any thing all the day long,
Altho’ he is able, and healthy, and strong:
At least, nothing right, but he often does wrong.

And then he’s as vain as he ever can be,
He wears gaudy clothes, that poor people may see,
And laughs at good folks, who are better than he.

And, tho’ he’s so rich, and so great, and so high,
He does no more good than a worm or a fly;
And no one would miss him, if he were to die.

I think ’tis much better, for all that I see,
A poor honest ploughman, like Thomas, to be,
Than a fine wealthy lord, but as useless as he.

The little Beggar Girl.

There’s a poor beggar going by,
I see her looking in;
She’s just about as big as I,
Only so very thin.

She has no shoes upon her feet,
She is so very poor;
And hardly any thing to eat:
I pity her, I’m sure.

But I have got nice clothes, you know,
And meat, and bread, and fire;
And you, mamma, that love me so,
And all that I desire.

If I were forced to stroll so far,
Oh dear, what should I do!
I wish she had a dear mamma,
Just such a one as you.

Here, little girl, come back again,
And hold your ragged hat,
For I will put a penny in;
So buy some bread with that.

Poor Puss.

Oh, Harry! my dear, do not kick the poor cat,
For, Pussy, I’m sure, will not thank you for that;
She was doing no harm, as she sat on the mat.

Suppose some great giant, amazingly strong,
Were often to kick you and drive you along;
Now, would you not think it exceedingly wrong?

And, Harry, I think you’re as greatly to blame,
When _you_ serve poor pussy exactly the same,
For she’s very gentle, and quiet, and tame.

She is under the table, quite out of your way,
But why should you tease her and drive her away?
She takes it in earnest, if you think it play.

There, now go and call her, and stroke her again,
And never, my love, give poor animals pain,
For you know, when you hurt them, they cannot complain.

The little Ants.

A little black ant found a large grain of wheat,
Too heavy to lift or to roll;
So he begg’d of a neighbour he happen’d to meet,
To help it down into his hole.

I’ve got my own work to see after, said he;
You must shift for yourself, if you please;
So he crawl’d off, as selfish and cross as could be,
And lay down to sleep at his ease.

Just then a black brother was passing the road,
And seeing his neighbour in want,
Came up and assisted him in with his load;
For he was a good-natured ant.

Let all who this story may happen to hear,
Endeavour to profit by it;
For often it happens that children appear
As cross as the ant, ev’ry bit.

And the good-natured ant, who assisted his brother,
May teach those who choose to be taught,
That if little insects are kind to each other,
Then children most certainly ought.

Second Thoughts are best.

I hate being scolded, and having a rout,
I’ve a good mind to stand in the corner and pout;
And if mamma calls me, I will not come out.

Yes, yes, here I’ll keep, I’m resolv’d on it quite,
With my face to the wall and my back to the light,
And I’ll not speak a word, if I stand here all night.

And yet mamma says, when I’m naughty and cry,
She scolds me to make me grow good by and by,
And that, all the time, she’s as sorry as I.

And she says, when I’m naughty, and will not obey,
If she were to let me go on in that way,
I should grow up exceedingly wicked one day.

Oh, then, what a very sad girl I should be,
To be sulky and cross when she punishes me,
And grieve such a very kind mother as she.

Well, then, I’ll go to her directly, and say,
Forgive me this once, my dear mother, I pray;
For that will be better than sulking all day.

The Meadows.

We’ll go to the meadows, where cowslips do grow,
And buttercups, looking as yellow as gold;
And daisies and violets, beginning to blow;
For it is a most beautiful sight to behold.

The little bee humming about them is seen,
The butterfly merrily dances along;
The grasshopper chirps in the hedges so green,
And the linnet is singing his liveliest song.

The birds and the insects are happy and gay,
The beasts of the field they are glad and rejoice,
And we will be thankful to God ev’ry day,
And praise his great name in a loftier voice.

He made the green meadows, he planted the flow’rs,
He sent his bright sun in the heavens to blaze;
He created these wonderful bodies of ours,
And as long as we live we will sing of his praise.

A Wasp and a Bee.

A wasp met a bee that was just buzzing by,
And he said, little cousin, can you tell me why
You are loved so much better by people than I?

My back shines as bright and as yellow as gold,
And my shape is most elegant too, to behold;
Yet nobody likes me for that, I am told.

Ah! cousin, the bee said, ’tis all very true.
But if I were half as much mischief to do,
Indeed they would love me no better than you.

You have a fine shape and a delicate wing,
They own you are handsome, but then there’s one thing
They cannot put up with, and that is your sting.

My coat is quite homely and plain, as you see,
Yet nobody ever is angry with me,
Because I’m a humble and innocent bee.

From this little story, let people beware,
Because, like the wasp, if ill-natured they are,
They will never be loved, if they’re ever so fair.
J.T.

Passion and Penitence.

Here’s morning again, and a good fire-side,
And a breakfast so nice, in a basin so full;
How good, dear mamma, for my wants to provide,
I ought to be good too—but sure you are dull.

You don’t smile to meet me, nor call me your dear;
Nor place your arms round me so kind on your knee;
Nor give the sweet kiss as I climb up your chair:
Nay, sure that’s a frown: are you angry with me?

Oh! now I remember, quite naughty last night,
I left you in passion, nor came for a kiss;
I bounced from the room in vexation and spite:
Indeed, ’twas ungrateful, I did act amiss.

My fretful ill-temper, so naughty and rude,
To you was unkind, before God it was wrong!
I’m ashamed to come near, when I know I’m not good:
You ought not to kiss me for ever so long.

Yet, indeed, I do love you, and stoutly will try
To subdue ev’ry passion that moves me amiss:
I’ll pray God to pardon my sin, lest I die:
When you see my repentance, I know you will kiss.

The Dunce of a Kitten.

Come, pussy, will you learn to read?
I’ve got a pretty book:
Nay, turn this way, you must, indeed:
Fie, there’s a sulky look.

Here is a pretty picture, see,
An apple and great A:
How stupid you will ever be,
If you do nought but play.

Come, A, B, C, an easy task,
What any fool can do:
I will do any thing you ask,
For dearly I love you.

Now, how I’m vex’d, you are so dull,
You have not learnt it half:
You will grow up a downright fool,
And make all people laugh.

Mamma told me so, I declare,
And made me quite ashamed;
So I resolved no pains to spare,
Nor like a dunce be blamed.

Well, get along, you naughty kit,
And after mice go look;
I’m glad that I have got more wit,
I love my pretty book.

A very sorrowful Story.

I’ll tell you a story, come, sit on my knee;
A true and a pitiful one it shall be,
About an old man, and a poor man was he.

He’d a fine merry boy, (such another as you,)
And he did for him all that a father could do;
For he was a kind father as ever I knew.

So he hoped that, one day, when his darling should grow
A fine hearty man, he’d remember, you know,
To thank his old father for loving him so.

But what do you think came of all this at last?
Why, after a great many years had gone past,
And the good-natured father grew old very fast;

Instead of rememb’ring how kind he had been,
This boy did not care for his father a pin,
But bade him begone, for he should not come in!

So he wander’d about in the frost and the snow!
For he had not a place in the world where to go:
And you’d almost have cried to have heard the wind blow.

And the tears, poor old man, oh! how fast they did pour!
As he shiver’d with cold at his wicked child’s door.
Did you ever, now, hear such a story before?
A.T.

THE END
Printed by Joseph Rickerby, Sherbourn Lane.

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TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where
multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer
errors occur.

The title of the poem "The Flower and the Lady" listed in the
TOC, did not match the title of the poem on page 21. The title
has been changed to reflect the TOC.

Book name and author have been added to the original book cover.
The resulting cover is placed in the public domain.

[The end of _Rhymes for the Nursery_, by Ann Taylor and Jane
Taylor.]