The coach too full is found to be:
Why is it crammed thus?
Now every one can plainly see
There's not half room for us.
Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame,
This hot and sultry weather,
Who but our master is to blame,
Who pack'd us thus together!
Now dust and sun does every one
Most terribly annoy;
Complaints begun, soon every one
Elbows his neighbour boy.
Not now the joyous laugh goes round,
We shout not now huzzah;
A sadder group may not be found
Than we returning are.
THE ORANGE
The month was June, the day was hot,
And Philip had an orange got.
The fruit was fragrant, tempting, bright,
Refreshing to the smell and sight;
Not of that puny size which calls
Poor customers to common stalls,
But large and massy, full of juice,
As any Lima can produce.
The liquor would, if squeezed out,
Have fill'd a tumbler thereabout—
The happy boy, with greedy eyes,
Surveys and re-surveys his prize.
He turns it round, and longs to drain,
And with the juice his lips to stain.
His throat and lips were parch'd with heat;
The orange seem'd to cry, Come eat.
He from his pocket draws a knife—
When in his thoughts there rose a strife,
Which folks experience when they wish,
Yet scruple to begin a dish,
And by their hesitation own
It is too good to eat alone.
But appetite o'er indecision
Prevails, and Philip makes incision.
The melting fruit in quarters came—
Just then there passed by a dame—
One of the poorer sort she seem'd,
As by her garb you would have deem'd—
Who in her toil-worn arms did hold
A sickly infant ten months old;
That from a fever, caught in spring,
Was slowly then recovering.
The child, attracted by the view
Of that fair orange, feebly threw
A languid look—perhaps the smell
Convinc'd it that there sure must dwell
A corresponding sweetness there,
Where lodg'd a scent so good and rare—
Perhaps the smell the fruit did give
Felt healing and restorative—
For never had the child been grac'd
To know such dainties by their taste.
When Philip saw the infant crave,
He straitway to the mother gave
His quarter'd orange; nor would stay
To hear her thanks, but tript away.
Then to the next clear spring he ran
To quench his drought, a happy man!
THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER
Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penn'd,
A youthful writer oft will stop,