Page 65—Greediness Land

The Plum Cake
"Oh! I've got a plum cake,
And a rare feast I'll make,
I'll eat, and I'll stuff, and I'll cram;
Morning, noontime, and night,
It shall be my delight;—
What a happy young fellow I am."
Thus said little George,
And, beginning to gorge,
With zeal to his cake he applied;
While fingers and thumbs,
For the sweetmeats and plums,
Were hunting and digging besides.
But, woeful to tell,
A misfortune befell,
Which ruin'd this capital fun!
After eating his fill,
He was taken so ill,
That he trembled for what he had done.
As he grew worse and worse,
The doctor and nurse,
To cure his disorder were sent;
And rightly, you'll think,
He had physic to drink,
Which made him his folly repent.
And while on his bed
He roll'd his hot head,
Impatient with sickness and pain;
He could not but take
This reproof from his cake,
"Don't be such a glutton again!"
Another Plum Cake
"Oh! I've got a plum cake,
And a feast let us make,
Come, school-fellows, come at my call;
I assure you 'tis nice,
And we'll each have a slice,
Here's more than enough for us all."
Thus said little Jack,
As he gave it a smack,
And sharpen'd his knife for the job!
While round him a troop,
Formed a clamorous group,
And hail'd him the king of the mob.
With masterly strength
He cut thro' it at length,
And gave to each playmate a share;
Dick, William, and James,
And many more names,
Partook of his benevolent care.
And when it was done,
And they'd finish'd their fun,
To marbles or hoop they went back,
And each little boy
Felt it always a joy
To do a good turn for good Jack.
In his task and his book,
His best pleasures he took,
And as he thus wisely began,
Since he's been a man grown,
He has constantly shown
That a good boy will make a good man.
Ann Taylor
The Great Glutton
'Twas the voice of the glutton,
I heard him complain:
My waistcoat unbutton,
I'll eat once again.
The Glutton
The voice of the glutton
I heard with disdain—
"I've not eaten this hour,
I must eat again;
Oh! give me a pudding,
A pie, or a tart,
A duck or a fowl,
Which I love from my heart.
"How sweet is the picking
Of capon or chicken!
A turkey and chine
Are most charming and fine;
To eat and to drink
All my pleasure is still,
I care not who wants
So that I have my fill."
Oh! let me not be,
Like a glutton, inclined
In feasting my body
And starving my mind,
With moderate viands
Be thankful, and pray
That the Lord may supply me
With food the next day.
Not always a-craving
With hunger still raving;
But little and sweet
Be the food that I eat.
To learning and wisdom
Oh let me apply.
And leave to the glutton
His pudding and pie.
J. Taylor
Selfish Edith
Selfish Edith, not to give
Her sister one, when she has two!
I wouldn't and I couldn't love
A selfish girl like her, could you?
Hear Bessie ask in plaintive tone,
"Please, Edith, let me play with one!"
While naughty Edith shakes her head:
I fear she'll have but little fun
With toys unshared so selfishly;
But when she tires of lonely play,
Perhaps she'll secretly resolve
To be more kind another day.
Hoggish Henry
Oh! Henry eats like any pig;
He drives his mother mad.
She scolds. He does not care a fig,
It's really very sad.
She says: "Your sister, little dear,
Is always clean and neat;
And though she's younger by a year,
How nicely she can eat."
It's all in vain. He does not care;
He's shocking to behold.
The table-cloth and napkin there
Are smeared in every fold.
Upon the floor, crumbs thickly lie,
As though for chickens laid,
Around his mouth and nose, oh fie!
Is dirt of every shade.
He looks, bedaubed with smear and stain,
Just like some savage wild,
His hands as forks are used, it's plain.
For shame! You dirty child!
Selfishness
Look at the selfish man! see how he locks
Tight in his arms his mortgages and stocks!
While deeds and titles in his hand he grasps,
And gold and silver close around he clasps.
But not content with this, behind he drags
A cart well-laden with ponderous bags;
The orphan's wailings, and the widow's woe
From mercy's fountain cause no tears to flow;
He pours no cordial in the wounds of pain;
Unlocks no prison, and unclasps no chain;
His heart is like the rock where sun nor dew
Can rear one plant or flower of heavenly hue.
No thought of mercy there may have its birth,
For helpless misery or suffering worth;
The end of all his life is paltry pelf,
And all his thoughts are centred on—himself:
The wretch of both worlds; for so mean a sum,
First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.

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