Part 1

[Cover Illustration]

FRONTISPIECE

[Illustration: _Moses del. et sculp^{r}_]

THE DUNCE of a KITTEN

_Published by Harvey & Darton._

RHYMES

FOR

THE NURSERY.

BY THE

Authors of “Original Poems.”

TWENTY-THIRD EDITION.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR HARVEY AND DARTON, GRACECHURCH-STREET.

1831.

Joseph Rickerby, Printer, Sherbourn Lane.

PREFACE.

In the simple title of “Rhymes for the Nursery,” the pretensions of this little volume are fully explained. In the _Nursery_ they are designed to circulate, and within its sanctuary walls, the writers claim shelter from the eye of criticism; though, should they appear to have admitted any _sentiment_, injudicious, erroneous, or dangerous, they ask not such an indulgence.

It has been questioned, by authority they respect, whether ideas adapted to the comprehension of infancy, admit the restrictions of rhyme and metre? With humility, therefore, the present attempt has been made: should it, however, in any degree, prove successful, the writers must certainly acknowledge themselves indebted rather to the plainness of prose, than to the decorations of poetry.

CONTENTS

Page The Cow 1 Good Night 2 Getting up 3 Mamma and the Baby 4 The Sparrows 5 Good Mamma 6 Learning to go alone 7 The little Girl that beat her Sister 8 The little Girl to her Dolly 9 The Star 10 Come and play in the Garden 11 About learning to read 12 No Breakfast for Growler 13 Poor Children 14 Learning to draw 16 What Clothes are made of 17 Little Girls must not fret 18 Charles and Animals 19 Breakfast and Puss 20 The Flower and the Lady, about getting up 21 The Baby’s Dance 22 For a little Girl that did not like to be washed 23 The Cut 24 The little Girl that could not read 25 Questions and Answers 26 Playing with Fire 27 The Field Daisy 28 The Michaelmas Daisy 29 Dutiful Jem 29 The Ants’ Nest 31 Sleepy Harry 32 Going to Bed 33 Idle Mary 34 One little Boy 35 Another little Boy 36 The little Child 37 The undutiful Boy 39 The old Beggar Man 40 The little Coward 41 The Sheep 42 The sick little Boy 44 To a little Girl that liked to look in the Glass 45 The cruel Boy and the Kittens 46 The Work-bag 48 The best way to be happy 49 The frolicsome Kitten 50 A fine Thing 51 A pretty Thing 52 Little Birds and cruel Boys 53 The Snow-drop 55 Romping 56 Working 57 The selfish Snails 58 Good Dobbin 59 Sulking 61 Time to go to bed 62 Time to rise 63 The poor Fly 64 Tumble up 66 The little Fish that would not do as it was bid 67 The two Babies 68 What came of firing a Gun 70 The little Negro 72 Poor Donkey 73 The Spring Nosegay 75 The Summer Nosegay 76 The Autumn Nosegay 77 The Winter Nosegay 78 The little Lark 79 The quarrelsome Dogs 81 The honest Ploughman 82 The great Lord 83 The little Beggar Girl 84 Poor Puss 85 The little Ants 87 Second Thoughts are best 88 The Meadows 89 A Wasp and a Bee 90 Passion and Penitence 92 The Dunce of a Kitten 93 A very sorrowful Story 95

RHYMES

FOR THE

NURSERY.

The Cow.

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.

Good Night.

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.

Getting up.

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.

Mamma and the Baby.

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.

The Sparrows.

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.

Good Mamma.

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.

Learning to go alone.

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.

The little Girl that beat her Sister.

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.

The little Girl to her Dolly.

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.

There, now it is morning, and time to get up, And I’ll crumb you a mess in my doll’s china cup; So wake, little baby, and open your eye, For I think it high time to have done with bye bye. A.T.

The Star.

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.

Come and play in the Garden.

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.

About learning to read.

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 Breakfast for Growler.

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.

Poor Children.

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.

Learning to draw.

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.

What Clothes are made of.

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.

Little Girls must not fret.

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.

Charles and Animals.

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.

Breakfast and Puss.

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.

The Flower and the Lady, about getting up.

Pretty flower, tell me why All your leaves do open wide, Every morning, when on high The noble sun begins to ride.

This is why, my lady fair, If you would the reason know, For betimes the pleasant air Very cheerfully doth blow.

And the birds on every tree, Sing a merry, merry tune, And the busy honey-bee Comes to suck my sugar soon.

This is all the reason why I my little leaves undo: Lady, lady, wake and try If I have not told you true.

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: Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing, With the merry gay coral, ding, ding-a-ding, ding.

For a little Girl that did not like to be washed.

What! cry when I wash you, not love to be clean! There, go and be dirty, unfit to be seen: And till you leave off, and I see you have smiled, I’ll not take the trouble to wash such a child.

Suppose I should leave you now, just as you are, Do you think you’d deserve a sweet kiss from papa, Or to sit on his knee and learn pretty great A, With fingers that have not been wash’d all the day?

Ay, look at your fingers, you see it is so: Did you ever behold such a black little row?

And for _once_ you may look at yourself in the glass: There’s a face, to belong to a good little lass! Come, come then, I see you’re beginning to clear, You won’t be so foolish again, will you, dear?

The Cut.

Well, what’s the matter? there’s a face! What! has it cut a vein? And is it quite a shocking place? Come, let us look again.

I see it bleeds, but never mind That tiny little drop; I don’t believe you’ll ever find That crying makes it stop.

’Tis sad indeed to cry at pain, For any but a baby; If that should chance to cut a vein, We should not wonder, may be.

But such a man as you should try To bear a little sorrow: So run about and wipe your eye, ’Twill all be well to-morrow.

The little Girl that could not read.

I don’t know my letters, and what shall I do? For I’ve got a nice book, but I can’t read it through! O dear, how I wish that my letters I knew!

I think I had better begin them to-day, For ’tis like a dunce to be always at play? Mamma, will you teach little baby great A?

And then, B and C, as they stand in the row, One after another, as far as they go, For then I can read my new story, you know.

So pray, mamma, teach me at once, and you’ll see What a very good child little baby will be, To try and remember her A, B, C, D.

Questions and Answers.

Who show’d the little ant the way Her narrow hole to bore, And spend the pleasant summer day, In laying up her store?

The sparrow builds her clever nest, Of wool, and hay, and moss; Who told her how to weave it best, And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly Among the sweetest flow’rs, And lay his store of honey by, To eat in winter hours?

’Twas God who show’d them all the way, And gave their little skill, And teaches children, if they pray, To do his holy will.

Playing with Fire.

I’ve seen a little girl, mamma, That had got such a dreadful scar, All down her arms, and neck, and face, I could not bear to see the place.

Poor little girl, and don’t you know The shocking trick that made her so? ’Twas all because she went and did A thing her mother had forbid.

For once, when nobody was by her, This silly child would play with fire; And long before her mother came, Her pinafore was all on flame.

In vain she tried to put it out, Till all her clothes were burnt about, And then she suffer’d ten times more, All over with a dreadful sore.

For many months before ’twas cured Most shocking torments she endured; And even now, when passing by her, You see what ’tis to play with fire.

The Field Daisy.

I’m a pretty little thing, Always coming with the spring; In the meadows green I’m found, Peeping just above the ground. And my stalk is cover’d flat, With a white and yellow hat.

Little lady, when you pass Lightly o’er the tender grass, Skip about, but do not tread On my meek and healthy head. For I always seem to say, “Surly Winter’s gone away.”

The Michaelmas Daisy.

I am very pale and dim, With my faint and bluish rim, Standing on my narrow stalk, By the litter’d gravel walk, And the wither’d leaves aloft, Fall upon me very oft.

But I show my lonely head, When the other flow’rs are dead, And you’re even glad to spy, Such a homely thing as I; For I seem to smile and say, “Summer is not quite away.” A.T.

Dutiful Jem.

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.