CROSS TOMMY.

The bird that will not sing, The bell that will not ring, The wheel that won’t go round about, The horse that will not spring, And the child that won’t be happy With what each day doth bring,— Now I call every one of these A naughty, useless thing.

Little Tommy’s crying;— What’s it all about? He cannot tell you why himself, So greatly he’s put out. He’s all that he can wish for, And plenty more beside,— A drum and a gun, And a great plum bun, And a rocking-horse to ride.

Young Master Tommy does not know What it is he wants to-day; He can’t enjoy his dinner, And he does not want to play. Suppose we send him off to bed, And take his toys away!