THE DUTIFUL SON.
Poor Susan was old and too feeble to spin,
Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they were thin;
And she must have starv’d, as so many have done,
If she had not been bless’d with a good little son.
He went every 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.
Oh then, was not little Jem happier far
Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are?
For, as long as he liv’d, ’twas his comfort and joy,
To think he’d not been an undutiful boy.