Man naturally loves delay,
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done too late.
Let every hour be in its place
Firm fixed, nor loosely shift, And well enjoy the vacant space,
As though a birthday gift.
And when the hour arrives, be there, Where’er that “there” may be;
Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair
Let no one ever see.
If dinner at “half-past” be placed,
At “half-past” then be dressed.
If at a “quarter-past” make haste
To be down with the rest.
Better to be before your time,
Than e’er to be behind;
To ope the door while strikes the chime,
That shows a punctual mind.
Moral
Let punctuality and care
Seize every flitting hour,
So shalt thou cull a floweret fair,
E’en from a fading flower.
Melodies
I
There was an old farmer of Readall,
Who made holes in his face with a needle,
Then went far deeper in Than to pierce through the skin, And yet strange to say he was made beadle.
II
There was an eccentric old draper,
Who wore a hat made of brown paper,
It went up to a point,
Yet it looked out of joint,
The cause of which he said was “vapour.”
III
There was once a young man of Oporta,
Who daily got shorter and shorter,
The reason he said
Was the hod on his head,
Which was filled with the heaviest mortar.
His sister, named Lucy O’Finner,
Grew constantly thinner and thinner;
The reason was plain,
She slept out in the rain,
And was never allowed any dinner.
Brother and Sister
“Sister, sister, go to bed!
Go and rest your weary head.”
Thus the prudent brother said.
“Do you want a battered hide,
Or scratches to your face applied?”
Thus his sister calm replied.
“Sister, do not raise my wrath.
I’d make you into mutton broth
As easily as kill a moth!”
The sister raised her beaming eye
And looked on him indignantly
And sternly answered, “Only try!”
Off to the cook he quickly ran.
“Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan
To me as quickly as you can.”
“And wherefore should I lend it you?”
“The reason, Cook, is plain to view.
I wish to make an Irish stew.”
“What meat is in that stew to go?”
“My sister’ll be the contents!”
“Oh!”
“You’ll lend the pan to me, Cook?”
“No!”
Moral: Never stew your sister.
Facts
Were I to take an iron gun,
And fire it off towards the sun;
I grant ’twould reach its mark at last,
But not till many years had passed.
But should that bullet change its force,
And to the planets take its course,
’Twould never reach the nearest star, Because it is so very far.
Rules and Regulations
A short direction
To avoid dejection,
By
