The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb
Chapter 160 : The King lays on his blows so stout, The Tarts for fear come tumbling out O King! be m

The King lays on his blows so stout, The Tarts for fear come tumbling out O King! be merciful as just, You'll beat poor Pambo into dust

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The Knave of Hearts_]

How like he looks to a dog that begs In abject sort upon two legs!

Good Mr. Knave, give me my due, I like a tart as well as you, But I would starve on good roast Beef, Ere I would look so like a thief.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Brought back those Tarts_]

The Knave brings back the tarts he stole.

The Queen swears, that is not the whole.

What should poor Pambo do? hard prest Owns he has eaten up the rest.

The King takes back, as lawful debt, Not all, but all that he can get.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _And vow'd he'd steal no more_]

Lo! Pambo prostrate on the floor Vows he will be a thief no more.

O King your heart no longer harden, You've got the tarts, give him his pardon.

The best time to forgive a sinner Is always after a good dinner.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"How say you Sir? tis all a joke-- Great Kings love tarts like other folk!"

If for a truth you'll not receive it, Pray, view the picture, and believe it.

Sly Pambo too has got a share, And eats it snug behind the chair.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Their Majesties so well have fed, The tarts have got up in their head.

"Or may be 'twas the wine!"--hush, gipsey!

Great Kings & Queens indeed get tipsey!

Now, Pambo, is the time for you: Beat little Tell-Tale black & blue.

POETRY FOR CHILDREN

(_1808-1809. Text of 1809_)

ENVY

This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignionet: And if this tree were discontent, Or wish'd to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret.

And should it fret, you would suppose It ne'er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smell'd it rose's scent, Or it could ne'er be discontent With its own pretty flower.

Like such a blind and senseless tree As I've imagin'd this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare.

THE REAPER'S CHILD

If you go to the field where the Reapers now bind The sheaves of ripe corn, there a fine little la.s.s, Only three months of age, by the hedge-row you'll find, Left alone by its mother upon the low gra.s.s.

While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping; Not the basket that holds the provision is less By the hard-working Reaper, than this little sleeper, Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press.

Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries, Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear; She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling, And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear.

When you were as young as this field-nursed daughter, You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee; So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her Whole time well bestow'd in nursing of thee.

THE RIDE

Lately an Equipage I overtook, And help'd to lift it o'er a narrow brook.

No horse it had except one boy, who drew His sister out in it the fields to view.

O happy town-bred girl, in fine chaise going For the first time to see the green gra.s.s growing.

This was the end and purport of the ride I learn'd, as walking slowly by their side I heard their conversation. Often she-- "Brother, is this the country that I see?"

The bricks were smoking, and the ground was broke, There were no signs of verdure when she spoke.

He, as the well-inform'd delight in chiding The ignorant, these questions still deriding, To his good judgment modestly she yields; Till, brick-kilns past, they reach'd the open fields.

Then as with rapt'rous wonder round she gazes On the green gra.s.s, the b.u.t.ter-cups, and daisies, "This is the country sure enough," she cries; "Is't not a charming place?" The boy replies, "We'll go no further." "No," says she, "no need; No finer place than this can be indeed."

I left them gathering flow'rs, the happiest pair That ever London sent to breathe the fine fresh air,

THE b.u.t.tERFLY

SISTER

Do, my dearest brother John, Let that b.u.t.terfly alone.

BROTHER

What harm now do I do?

You're always making such a noise--

SISTER

O fie, John; none but naughty boys Say such rude words as you.

BROTHER

Because you're always speaking sharp: On the same thing you always harp.

A bird one may not catch, Nor find a nest, nor angle neither, Nor from the peac.o.c.k pluck a feather, But you are on the watch To moralise and lecture still.

SISTER

And ever lecture, John, I will, When such sad things I hear.

But talk not now of what is past; The moments fly away too fast, Though endlessly they seem to last To that poor soul in fear.