Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush'd me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
My Mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock'd me that I should not cry?
My Mother.
Who sat and watch'd 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 gaz'd upon my heavy eye,
And wept, for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who drest my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?
My Mother.
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
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 thy care,
My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay (1),
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
And when I see thee hang thy head,
'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
My Mother.
For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance (2) in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise,
My Mother.
"Crazy Robert"
Poor Robert is crazy, his hair is turned gray,
His beard is grown long, and hangs down to his breast;
Misfortune has taken his reason away,
His heart has no comfort, his head has no rest.
Poor man, it would please me to soften thy woes,
To soothe thy affliction, and yield thee support;
But see, through the village, wherever he goes,
The cruel boys follow, and turn him to sport.
'Tis grievous to see how the pitiless mob
Run round him and mimic his mournful complaint,
And try to provoke him, and call him ' Old Bob,'
And hunt him about till he's ready to faint.
But ah! wicked children, I fear they forget
That God does their cruel diversion behold;
And that, in His book dreadful curses are writ,
For those who shall mock at the poor and the old.
Poor Robert, thy troubles will shortly be o'er;
Forgot in the grave thy misfortunes will be;
But God will His anger assuredly pour
On those wicked children who persecute thee.
"Deaf Martha"
Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turn'd gray,
And her hearing has left her for many a year;
Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say,
Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear.
I've seen naughty children run after her fast,
And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock (3) so bold;"
And when she was frightened, laugh at her at last,
Because she believed the sad stories they told.
I've seen others put their mouths close to her ear,
And make signs as if they had something to say;
And when she said, "Master, I'm deaf and can't hear,"
Point at her and mock her, and scamper away.
Ah! wicked the children poor Martha to tease,
As if she had not enough else to endure;
They rather should try her affliction to ease,
And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure.
One day, when those children themselves are grown old,
And one may be deaf, and another be lame,
Perhaps they may find that some children, as bold,
May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the same.
Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth,
A faithful account will their consciences keep,
And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the truth,
That "what a man soweth, the same shall he reap." (4)
"Poverty" (5)
I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
And the snow drifted in at the door.
Yet there a poor family dwelt,
In a hovel so dismal and rude;
And though gnawing hunger they felt,
They had not a morsel of food.
The children were crying for bread,
And to their poor mother they’d run;
‘Oh, give us some breakfast,’ they said,
Alas! their poor mother had none.
She viewed them with looks of despair,
She said (and I’m sure it was true),
‘’Tis not for myself that I care,
But, my poor little children, for you.’
O then, let the wealthy and gay
But see such a hovel as this,
That in a poor cottage of clay
They may know what true misery is.
And what I may have to bestow
I never will squander away,
While many poor people I know
Around me are wretched as they.
"The Poor Old Man" (5)
Ah! who is it totters along,
And leans on the top of his stick!
His wrinkles are many and long,
And his beard is grown silver and thick.
No vigour enlivens his frame,
No cheerfulness beams in his eye,
His limbs are enfeebled and lame,
And he seems as if going to die.
They tell me he once was as gay
As I, in my merriest mood;
That briskly he carolled away,
With spirits that nothing subdued.
That he clambered high over the rocks,
To search where the sea-bird had been;
And followed his venturesome flocks,
Up and down on the mountain so green.
But now what a change there appears!
How altered his figure and face!
Bent low with a number of years,
How feeble and slow is his pace!
He thought a few winters ago,
Old age was a great while to come;
And it seems but as yesterday, now,
That he frolicked in vigour and bloom.
He thought it was time enough yet,
For death and the grave to prepare,
And seemed all his life to forget
How fast time would carry him there.
He sported in spirits and ease,
And thought it too soon to repent,
Till, all in a hurry, he sees
The bright opportunity spent.
Now, weak with disorder and years,
And tottering into the dust,
Oh! he would give rivers of tears
To have minded religion at first.
He spends his few sorrowful days,
In wishing his life could return;
But, alas! he has wasted the blaze,
And now it no longer will burn.
"The Last Dying Speech and Confession of Poor Puss" (6)
'Kind masters and misses, whoever you be,
Do stop for a moment and pity poor me!
While here on my death-bed I try to relate
My many misfortunes and miseries great.
My dear mother Tabby I've often heard say
That I have been a very fine cat in my day;
But the sorrows in which my whole life has been passed,
Have spoiled all my beauty, and killed me at last.
Poor thoughtless young thing! if I recollect right,
I was kittened in March, on a clear frosty night;
And before I could see, or was half a week old,
I nearly had perished, the barn was so cold.
But this chilly spring I got pretty well over,
And moused in the hay-loft, or played in the clover,
Or till I was weary, which seldom occurred,
Ran after my tail, which I took for a bird.
But, ah! my poor tail, and my pretty sleek ears!
The farmer's boy cut them all off with his shears;
How little I thought, when I licked them so clean,
I should be such a figure, not fit to be seen!
Some time after this, when the places were heal'd,
As I lay in the sun, sound asleep in the field,
Miss Fanny crept slyly, and gripping me fast,
Declared she had caught the sweet creature at last.
Ah me! how I struggled, my freedom to gain,
But, alas ! all my kicking and struggles were vain,
For she held me so tight in her pinafore tied,
That before she got home I had like to have died.
From this dreadful morning my sorrows arose:
Wherever I went I was followed with blows:
Some kicked me for nothing, while quietly sleeping,
Or flogged me for daring the pantry to peep in.
And then the great dog! I shall never forget him;
How many a time my young master would set him,
And while I stood terrified, all of a quake,
Cry, 'Hey, cat!' and, 'Seize her, boy! give her a shake!'
Sometimes, when so hungry, I could not forbear
Just taking a scrap that I thought they could spare,
Oh! what have I suffered with beating and banging,
Or starved for a fortnight, or threatened with hanging.
But kicking, and beating, and starving, and that,
I have borne with the spirit becoming a cat:
There was but one thing which I could not sustain,
So great was my sorrow, so hopeless my pain:
One morning, laid safe in a warm little bed,
That down in the stable I'd carefully spread,
Three sweet little kittens as ever you saw,
I hid, as I thought, in some trusses of straw.
I was never so happy, I think, nor so proud,
I mewed to my kittens, and purred out aloud,
And thought with delight of the merry carousing
We'd have, when I first took them with me a-mousing.
But how shall I tell you the sorrowful ditty?
I'm sure it would melt even Growler to pity;
For the very next morning my darlings I found
Lying dead by the horse-pond, all mangled and drowned.
Poor darlings, I dragged them along to the stable,
And did all to warm them a mother was able;
But, alas ! all my licking and mewing were vain,
And I thought I should never be happy again.
However, time gave me a little relief,
And mousing diverted the thoughts of my grief;
And at last I began to be gay and content,
Till one dreadful night, I sincerely repent.
Miss Fanny was fond of a little canary,
That tempted me more than mouse, pantry, or dairy;
So, not having eaten a morsel all day,
I flew to the bird-cage and tore it away.
Now tell me, my friends, was the like ever heard,
That a cat should be killed for just catching a bird!
And I am sure not the slightest suspicion I had,
But that catching a mouse was exactly as bad.
Indeed I can say, with my paw on my heart,
I would not have acted a mischievous part:
But, as dear mother Tabby was often repeating,
I thought birds and mice were on purpose for eating.
Be this as it may, when my supper was o'er,
And but a few feathers were left on the floor,
Came Fanny and scolding, and righting, and crying,
She gave me those bruises of which I am dying.
But I feel that my breathing grows shorter apace,
And cold, clammy sweats trickle down from my face:
I forgive little Fanny this bruise on my side'
She stopped, gave a sigh, and a struggle, and died!
"The Little Bird's Complaint to his Mistress"
Here in this wiry prison where I sing,
And think of sweet green woods, and long to fly,
Unable once to try my useless wing,
Or wave my feathers in the clear blue sky,
Day after day the selfsame things I see,
The cold white ceiling, and this dreary house;
Ah! how unlike my healthy native tree,
Rocked by the winds that whistled through the boughs.
Mild spring returning strews the ground with flowers,
And hangs sweet May-buds on the hedges gay,
But no kind sunshine cheers my gloomy hours,
Nor kind companion twitters on the spray!
Oh! how I long to stretch my listless wings,
And fly away as far as eye can see!
And from the topmost bough, where Robin sings,
Pour my wild songs, and be as blithe as he.
Why was I taken from the waving nest,
From flowery fields, wide woods, and hedges green;
Torn from my tender mother's downy breast,
In this sad prison-house to die unseen?
Why must I hear, in summer evenings fine,
A thousand happier birds in merry choirs?
And I, poor lonely I, in grief repine,
Caged by these wooden walls and golden wires!
Say not, the tuneful notes I daily pour
Are songs of pleasure, from a heart at ease;
They are but wailings at my prison door,
Incessant cries, to taste the open breeze!
Kind mistress, come, with gentle, pitying hand,
Unbar that curious grate, and set me free;
Then on the whitethorn bush I'll take my stand,
And sing sweet songs to freedom and to thee.
"The True History of a Poor Little Mouse"
A poor little mouse had once made him a nest,
As he fancied, the warmest, and safest, and best
That a poor little mouse could enjoy;
So snug and convenient, so out of the way,
This poor little mouse and his family lay,
They feared neither pussy nor boy.
It was in a stove that was seldom in use,
Where shavings and papers were scattered in loose,
That this poor little mouse made his hole:
But, alas! master William had seen him one day,
As in a great fright he had scampered away,
With a piece of plum-pudding he stole.
As soon as young William (who, cruel and bad,
No pitiful thoughts for dumb animals had)
Descried the poor fellow's retreat,
He crept to the shavings, and set them alight,
And before the poor mouse could run off in its fright,
It was smothered to death in the heat!
Poor mouse! how it died I can't bear to relate,
Nor how all its little ones shared the same fate,
And sunk, one by one, in the flame!
Suppose we should hear, as we may do, some night,
That William's own bed-curtains catching alight,
He suffered exactly the same!
