Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Children's Choice

The Children's Choice.

John.

I mean to be a soldier, With uniform quite new;I wish they'd let me have a drum, And be a captain, too;I would go amid the battle With my broadsword in my hand,And hear the cannon rattle, And the music all so grand.

Mother.

My son! my son! what if that sword Should strike a noble heart,And bid some loving father From his little ones depart!What comfort would your waving plumes And brilliant dress bestow,When you thought upon the widow's tears And her orphan's cry of woe!

William.

I mean to be a president, And rule each rising state,And hold my levées once a week, For all the gay and great:I'll be a king, except a crown, For all they wont allow,And I'll find out what the tariff is, That puzzles me so now.

Mother.

My son! my son! the cares of state Are thorns upon the breast,That ever pierce the good man's heart, And rob him of his rest.The great and gay to him appear As trifling as the dust,For he knows how little they are worth— How faithless is their trust.

Louisa.

I mean to be a cottage girl, And sit behind a rill,And morn and eve my pitcher there With purest water fill;And I'll train a lovely woodbine Around my cottage door,And welcome to my winter hearth The wandering and the poor.

Mother.

Louisa, dear, a humble mind 'Tis beautiful to see,And you shall never hear a word To check that mind from me;But, ah! remember, pride may dwell Beneath the woodbine shade;And discontent, a sullen guest, The cottage hearth invade.

Caroline.

I will be gay and courtly, And dance away the hours;Music, and sport, and joy shall dwell Beneath my fairy bowers;No heart shall ache with sadness Within my laughing hall,But the note of joy and gladness Re-echo to my call.

Mother.

O children! sad it makes my soul To hear your playful strain;I cannot bear to chill your heart With images of pain.Yet humbly take what God bestows, And like his own fair flowers,Look up in sunshine with a smile, And gently bend in showers.