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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
'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.
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.
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.