[Illustration]

POOR CRAZY ROBERT

Poor Robert is crazy, his hair is turn’d gray,
  His beard has grown long, and hangs down to his breast;
Misfortune has taken his reason away,
  His heart has no comfort, his head has no rest.

Poor man, it would please me to soften thy woes,
  To soothe thy affliction, and yield thee support;
But see through the village, wherever he goes,
  The cruel boys follow, and turn him to sport.

’Tis grievous to sue how the pitiless mob
  Run round him and mimic his mournful complaint,

[Illustration:  Poor Crazy Robert.]

And try to provoke him, and call him old Bob,
  And hunt him about till he’s ready to faint.

But ah! wicked children, I fear they forget
  That God does their cruel diversion behold;
And that in his book dreadful curses are writ,
  For those who shall mock at the poor and the old.

Poor Robert, thy troubles will shortly be o’er,
  Forget in the grave thy misfortunes will be;
But God will his vengeance assuredly pour
  On those wicked children who persecute thee.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:  The Pet Lamb.]

THE PET LAMB.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice:  it said, Drink, pretty creature,
  drink! 
And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain Lamb with a maiden at its
  side.

No other sheep were near; the Lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden
  kneel,
While to that mountain Lamb she gave its evening
  meal.

The Lamb, while from her hand he thus his
  supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail
  with pleasure shook. 
Drink, pretty creature, drink, she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.

’Twas little Barbara Lethwaite, a child of beauty
  rare! 
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely
  pair: 
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she
  stay.

Towards the Lamb she looked; and from that
  shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face;
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers
  bring,
Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little maid
  might sing!

What ails thee, young one? what? why pull so at
  thy cord? 
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and
  board? 
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass
  can be;
Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth
  thee?

What is it thou wouldst seek? what is wanting to
  thy heart? 
Thy limbs are they not strong?  And beautiful
  thou art: 
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they
  have no peers;
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!