The sick little Boy.
Reading edition
Ah! why’s my poor fellow so pale?
And why do the little tears fall?
Come, tell me, love, what do you ail,
And mother shall cure him of all.
There, lay your white cheek on my lap,
With your pinafore over your head,
And, perhaps, when you’ve taken a nap,
Again your white cheek may be red.
Oh! no, don’t be kind to me yet:
I do not deserve to be kiss’d;
Some gooseb’ries and currants I eat,
For I thought that they would not be miss’d:
And so, when you left me alone,
I took them, although they were green!
But is it not better to own
What a sad naughty boy I have been?
Oh! yes, I am sorry to hear
The thing that my Richard has done;
But as you have own’d it, my dear,
You have not made two faults of one:
Be sure that you never again
Forget that God watches your way,
And patiently bear with your pain,
That does but your folly repay.