My book tells a great deal of lessons and work,
For I go at my reading and sums—like a Turk,
Make nothing of Grammar, noun, pronoun, or verb;
My hand-writing, too, you will please to observe.
Oh! Was I not proud when I got the first prize,
Overcoming a chap I dislike and despise!
My greatest delight was to see his surprise,
For he counted himself so exceedingly wise.
He'll never beat me, if for ever he tries!
OLD YEAR.
Oh! Quick turn aside,
Such pages to hide,
They are blotted all o'er with ill-nature and pride!
SICK CHILD.
I've been so long ill, I've had little to write,
For months it was pain, both by day and by night;
I tried to be patient, indeed I did try
Not to give so much trouble, and never to cry,
But sometimes a tear came, and sometimes a sigh!
Oh! How much I owe to my dear Mother's care,
Her smiles and her soothing, her sweet words of prayer!
I'm sure, but for her, I'd have died in my pain,
But I'm getting so well and so happy again!
I think you will find,
On each page, underlined,
That God is so good, and my Mother so kind!
OLD YEAR.
And sickness, we find,
Left a blessing behind,
The rose-leaves of patience, a spirit resigned.
A GIRL.
My journal looked much like a milliner's bill,
With lace and with lappets, with flounce and with frill,
With choosing and trying,
And fitting and buying,
To fashions applying,
The looking-glass eyeing,
'Twas all rather frivolous, there's no denying.
A spark fell on my book,
Oh! Look at it, look!
'Tis almost as black as a raven or rook!
ALL.