POETRY.
THE NEW NURSE.
WE cry and fight now all the day, And simply hats to hear her name ; And still she isn't sent away, And Mother keeps her just the same.
For Mother says, "In time, you know, You'll get accustomed to her quite." • But we don't get accustomed : so We cry ourselves to sleep at night.. She is so cross, and has such airs ; And cannot play, for she's too smart : And yet we always in our prayers Ask God to give her a new heart.
The new heart isn't very quick In coming, though we ask each day. She says our nonsense makes her sick, And we'd much better stick to play.
Her mouth is like a bit of string Which every night we have to kiss ; She thinks of every horrid thing, And when she talks she speaks like this,— " The other little boy I knew "— Or else—" Miss Jane, in my last place, Never did anything like you ; She'd be ashamed of such a face ! "
She only does it to annoy.
But, if Miss Jane came here to tea, Or if we met that other boy, We'd pinch them till they couldn't see.
And so we cry, and so we're sad, And know we're getting worse and worse : And yet we weren't so very bad Till Mother wanted a new Nurse.
MABEL DEARMER.
Previous page
