Poor Peter was burnt by the poker one day,
When he made it look pretty and red;
For the beautiful sparks made him think it fine play,
To lift it as high as his head.
But somehow it happen'd his finger and thumb
Were terribly scorched by the heat;
And he scream'd out aloud for his mother to come,
And stamp'd on the floor with his feet.
Now if Peter had minded his mother's command,
His fingers would not have been sore;
And he promised again, as she bound up his hand,
To play with hot pokers no more.
BEN'S HEAVY PUNISHMENT
'Tis sad when boys are disinclin'd
To benefit by kind advice;
No little child of virtuous mind
Should need receive a caution twice.
The baker on a pony came
(Oft us'd by them, and butchers too),
And little Ben was much to blame
For doing what he should not do.
They told him not to mount the horse;
Alas! he did; away they flew;
In vain he pull'd with all his force,
The pony ran a mile or two.
At length poor little Ben was thrown;
Ah! who will pity? who's to blame?
Alas! the fault is all his own—
Poor little Ben for life is lame!