Page 62—Pride Land

A Fine Lady
Did ever you see such wondrous airs!
Oh, oh! my Lady Jane!
Your airs will blow you quite away,
You'll go to Vanity-land to stay,
And ne'er come back again.
Pray, what's the price of your hat my dear?
And what'll you take for your gloves?
And how'll you sell each pink kid shoe?
And your wonderful dressed-up poodle, too?
You're a precious pair of loves.
You're all too fine for us, you know,
With your airs and stately tread,
From your pretty feet to your pretty dress,
And up to your ruffled neck, oh, yes,
And on to your feathered head.
So go your way, my Lady Jane,
Till you come from Vanity-land again.

To A Little Girl Who Liked To Look In The Glass

Why is my silly girl so vain,
Looking in the glass again?
For the meekest flower of spring
Is a gayer little thing.
Is your merry eye so blue
As the violet, wet with dew?
Yet it loves the best to hide
By the hedge's shady side.
Is your bosom half so fair
As the modest lilies are?
Yet their little bells are hung
Bright and shady leaves among.
When your cheek the brightest glows,
Is it redder than the rose?
But its sweetest buds are seen
Almost hid with moss and green.
Little flowers that open gay,
Peeping forth at break of day,
In the garden, hedge, or plain,
Have more reason to be vain.
The Ragged Girl's Sunday
"Oh, dear Mamma, that little girl
Forgets this is the day
When children should be clean and neat,
And read and learn and pray!
Her face is dirty and her frock,
Holes in her stockings, see;
Her hair is such a fright, oh, dear!
How wicked she must be!
She's playing in the kennel dirt
With ragged girls and boys;
But I would not on Sunday touch
My clean and pretty toys.
I go to church, and sit so still,
I in the garden walk,
Or take my stool beside the fire,
And hear nice Sunday talk.
I read my bible, learn my hymns,
My catechism say;
That wicked little girl does not—
She only cares to play."
"Ah! hush that boasting tone, my love,
Repress self-glorying pride;
You can do nothing of yourself—
Friends all your actions guide."
Criminal Pride
Hark the rustle of a dress
Stiff with lavish costliness!
Here comes on whose cheek would flush
But to have her garment brush
'Gainst the girl whose fingers thin
Wove the weary 'broidery in,
Bending backward from her toil,
Lest her tears the silk might soil,
And in midnight's chill and murk,
Stitched her life into the work.
Little doth the wearer heed
Of the heart-break in the brede;
A hyena by her side
Skulks, down-looking—it is Pride.
J. R. Lowell
Foolish Fanny
Oh! Fanny was so vain a lass,
If she came near a looking-glass,
She'd stop right there for many a minute
To see how pretty she looked in it.
She'd stand and prink, and fix her hair
Around her forehead with great care;
And take some time to tie a bow
That must, to please her, lie just so.
Her mother's bonnet she'd put on,
And all her richest dresses don,
And up and down the room parade,
And much enjoy her promenade.
She always liked to wear the best
She had, and being so much dress'd
Could not enjoy the romps with those
Who wore much less expensive clothes.
Each day she grew so fond of dress
It gave her great unhappiness
If every day, and all the while,
She wasn't in the latest style.
If asked to turn the jumping-rope
Her pretty parasol she'd ope,
Lest she should freckle in the sun:
And that was her idea of fun!
She didn't dare to take the cat
Or poodle-dog from off the mat,
Lest they should catch their little toes
In laces, frills, or furbelows.
The very things that gave her joy,
Her peace and comfort would destroy,
For oft an ugly nail would tear
The costly dress she chose to wear.
The foolish girl turned up her nose
At those who dressed in plainer clothes,
And lived in quiet style, for she
With wealthy people chose to be
She never was the least inclined
With knowledge to enrich her mind;
And all the mental food she ate
Was served upon a fashion-plate.
As this was so, you'll see at once
That Fan grew up a silly dunce:
An there was nothing to admire
About her, but her fine attire.

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