THE PARROT.
Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries,
Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies
And calls aloud for sack.
She next instructs him in the kiss,
’Tis now a little one, like Miss,—
And now a hearty smack!
WHY EMMA IS LOVED.
Little Mary call’d Emma, who was just skipping by,
And she said, little cousin, can you tell me why
You are loved so much better by people than I?
My face is as clean, and my hair shines like gold,
And my walk and my dress are as nice to behold,
Yet nobody likes me for that, I am told.
Ah, Mary, she said, this is all very true,
But if half as much mischief were I to do,
Indeed people would love me no better than you.
Your face is as clean, and your hair is as bright,
Your frock is as tidy, your hands are as white,
But there’s one thing, dear Mary—you seldom do right.