What a little thing am I!
Hardly higher than the table;
I can eat, and play, and cry,
But to work I am not able.
Nothing in the world I know,
But mamma will try and show me;
Sweet mamma, I love her so,
She’s so very kind unto me.
And she sets me on her knee
Very often for some kisses:
O! how good I’ll try to be,
To such a dear mamma as this is!
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.