Lazyland
Three travellers wandered along the strand,
Each with a staff in his feeble hand;
And they chanted low:
"We are go-o-o-
Ing slow-o-ow-
Ly to Lazyland.
"They've left off eating and drinking there;
They never do any thinking there;
They never walk,
And they never talk,
And they fall asleep without winking there.
"Nobody's in a hurry there;
They are not permitted to worry there;
'Tis a wide, still place
And not a face
Shows any symptom of flurry there.
"No bells are rung in the morning there,
They care not at all for adorning there;
All sounds are hushed,
And a man who rushed
Would be treated with absolute scorning there.
"They do not take any papers there;
No politicians cut capers there;
They have no 'views,'
And they tell no news,
And they burn no midnight tapers there.
"No lovers are ever permitted there;
Reformers are not admitted there;
They argue not
In that peaceful spot,
And their clothes all come ready-fitted there.
"Electricity has not been heard of there;
And steam has been spoken no word of there;
They stay where they are,
And a coach or a car
They have not so much as a third of there.
"Oh, this world is a truly crazy land;
A worrying, hurrying, mazy land;
We cannot stay,
We must find the way—
If there is a way—to Lazyland."

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Page 69—Laziness Land

Lazy Willie
Oh! Willie is a lazy boy,
A "Sleepy Head" is he,
"Wake up!" his little sister cries,
"Wake up and talk to me."
The birds are singing in the trees,
The sun is shining bright,
But sleepy Willie slumbers on
As though it yet were night.
Oh! lazy boys will never grow
To clever manhood, you must know,
So lift your eyelids, sleepy head,
Wake up, and scramble out of bed.
The Lazy Boy
The lazy boy! and what's his name?
I should not like to tell;
But don't you think it is a shame,
That he can't read or spell.
He'd rather swing upon a gate,
Or paddle in a brook,
Than take his pencil and his slate,
Or try to con a book.
There, see! he's lounging down the street,
His hat without a brim,
He rather drags than lifts his feet—
His face unwashed and grim.
He's lolling now against a post;
But if you've seen him once,
You'll know the lad among a host
For what he is—a dunce.
Don't ask me what's the urchin's name;
I do not choose to tell;
But this you'll know—it is the same
As his who does not blush for shame
That he don't read or spell.
The Sluggard
'Tis the voice of the sluggard;
I heard him complain,
"You have waked me too soon,
I must slumber again."
As the door on it's hinges,
So he on his bed
Turns his sides, and his shoulders,
And his heavy head.
"A little more sleep
And a little more slumber;"
Thus he wastes half his days
And his hours without number,
And when he gets up
He sits folding his hands,
Or walking about sauntering,
Or trifling he stands.
I pass'd by his garden,
And saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle
Grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hung on him
Are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes
Till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit,
Still hoping to find
That he took better care
For improving his mind;
He told me his dreams,
Talked of eating and drinking,
But he scarce reads his Bible,
And never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart,
"Here's a lesson for me;
This man's but a picture
Of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends
For their care in my breeding,
Who taught me bedtimes
To love working and reading."
Watts
Idle Dicky And The Goat
John Brown is a man
Without houses or lands,
Himself he supports
By the work of his hands.
He brings home his wages
Each Saturday night,
To his wife and his children,
A very good sight.
His eldest boy, Dicky,
On errands when sent,
To loiter and chatter
Was very much bent;
The neighbours all call'd him
An odd little trout,
His shoes they were broke,
And his toes they peep'd out.
To see such old shoes
All their sorrows were rife;
John Brown he much grieved,
And so did his wife,
He kiss'd his boy Dicky,
And stroked his white head,
"You shall have a new pair,
My dear boy," he then said.
"I've here twenty shillings,
And money has wings;
Go first get this note changed,
I want other things."
Now here comes the mischief—
This Dicky would stop
At an ill-looking, mean-looking
Greengrocer's shop.
For here lived a chattering
Dunce of a boy;
To prate with this urchin
Gave Dicky great joy.
And now, in his boasting,
He shows him his note,
And now to the green-stall
Up marches a goat.
The laughed, for it was
This young nanny-goat's way
With those who pass'd by her
To gambol and play.
All three they went on
In their frolicsome bouts,
Till Dick dropt the note
On a bunch of green sprouts.
Now what was Dick's wonder
To see the vile goat,
In munching the green sprouts,
Eat up his bank note!
He crying ran back
To John Brown with the news,
And by stopping to idle
He lost his new shoes.
Adelaide Taylor