Now, alas! I'm weak and low, Cannot either work or play; Tottering on my crutches, slow, Thus I drag my weary way: Now no longer dance and sing, Gaily, in the merry ring. Many sleepless nights I live, Turning on my weary bed; Softest pillows cannot give Slumber to my aching head; Constant anguish makes it fly From my heavy, wakeful eye. And, when morning beams return, Still no comfort beams for me: Still my limbs with fever burn Painful still my crippled knee. And another tedious day Passes slow and sad away. From my chamber-window high, Lifted to my easy-chair, I the village-green can spy, Once _I_ used to frolic there, March, or beat my new-bought drum; Happy times! no more to come. There I see my fellows gay, Sporting on the daisied turf, And, amidst their cheerful play, Stopp'd by many a merry laugh; But the sight I scarce can bear, Leaning in my easy-chair. Let not then the scoffing eye Laugh, my twisted leg to see: Gentle Christians, passing by, Stop awhile, and pity me, And for you I'll breathe a prayer, Leaning in my easy-chair. [Illustration] [Illustration] NEGLIGENT MARY. Ah, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care? And why is she left on the floor? Forsaken, and cover'd with dust, I declare; With you I must trust her no more. I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly, When on your birthday she was sent; Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly? Was that, do you think, what I meant? With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted, And trimm'd it so pretty with pink; But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted: Her nurse quite forgets her, I think. Suppose now--for Mary is _dolly_ to me, Whom I love to see tidy and fair-- Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see, In tatters, and comfortless there. But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear, Nor cares for her negligent nurse: If I were as careless as you are, I fear, Your lot, and my fault, would be worse. And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive To check every fault that I see: Mary's doll is but waxen--mamma's is alive, And of far more importance than she. [Illustration] THE SPIDER. "Oh, look at that great ugly spider!" said Ann; And screaming, she brush'd it away with her fan; "'Tis a frightful black creature as ever can be, I wish that it would not come crawling on me." "Indeed," said her mother, "I'll venture to say, The poor thing will try to keep out of your way; For after the fright, and the fall, and the pain, It has much more occasion than you to complain.