Page 63—Pride Land

Pride
Come, come, Mr. Peacock,
You must not be so proud,
Although you can boast such a train,
For there's many a bird
Far more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.
Let me tell you, gay bird,
That a suit of fine clothes
Is a sorry distinction at most,
And seldom much valued
Excepting by those
Who only such graces can boast.
The nightingale certainly
Wears a plain coat,
But she cheers and delights with her song;
While you, though so vain,
Cannot utter a note
To please by the use of your tongue.
The hawk cannot boast
Of a plumage so gay,
But more piercing and clear is her eye;
And while you are strutting
About all the day,
She gallantly soars in the sky.
The dove may be clad
In a plainer attire,
But she is not so selfish and cold;
And her love and affection
More pleasure inspire
Than all your fine purple and gold.
So, you see, Mr. Peacock,
You must not be proud,
Although you can boast such a train,
For many a bird
Is more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.
Sinful Pride
How proud we are, how fond to shew
Our clothes, and call them rich and new,
When the poor sheep and silkworm wore
That very clothing long before!
The tulip and butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I;
Let me be dress'd as fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me.
Dr. Watts
Finery
In a frock richly trimm'd
With a beautiful lace,
And hair nicely dress'd
Hanging over her face,
Thus deck'd, Harriet went
To the house of a friend,
With a large little party
The ev'ning to spend.
"Ah! how they will all
Be delighted, I guess,
And stare with surprise
At my elegant dress!"
Thus said the vain girl,
And her little heart beat,
Impatient the happy
Young party to meet.
But, alas! they were all
To intent on their fun,
To observe the gay clothes
This fine lady had on;
And thus all her trouble
Quite lost its design,
For they saw she was proud,
But forgot she was fine.
'Twas Lucy, tho' only
In simple white clad,
(Nor trimmings, nor laces,
Nor jewels she had,)
Whose cheerful good nature
Delighted them more,
Than all the fine garments
That Harriet wore.
'Tis better to have
A sweet smile on one's face,
Than to wear a rich frock
With an elegant lace,
For the good-natur'd girl
Is lov'd best in the main,
If her dress is but decent,
Tho' ever so plain.
T I
A Fop
A little cane,
A high-crowned hat,
A fixed impression,
Rather flat.
A pointed shoe,
A scanty coat,
A stand-up collar
Round his throat
A gorgeous necktie
Spreading wide,
A small moustache—
Nine on a side.
Arms at right angles,
Curved with ease,
A stilted walk
And shaky knees.
A languid drawl,
The "English" swing,
An air of knowing
Everything.
A vacant stare,
Extremely rude,
And there you have
The perfect dude.
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.
Shaping from her bitter thought,
Heart's-ease and forget-me-not,
Satirizing her despair
With the emblems woven there,
Little doth the wearer heed
Of the heart-break in the blede;
A hyena by her side
Skulks, down-looking—it is Pride.
J. R. Lowell
Vain Lizzie
It surely is not good to see,
Lizzie so full of vanity,
So fond of dress and show.
For when a fine new frock she wears,
She gives herself most silly airs,
Wherever she may go.
She thinks herself a charming girl;
But when folks see her twist and twirl,
They stop in every street,
They smile, or fairly laugh outright,
And say: "She's really quite a sight,
Was ever such conceit?"

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