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  Watt's Songs
McLOUGHLIN BROS., Publishers,
Why should our garments, made to hide
Our parents' shame, provoke our pride?
The art of dress did ne'er begin
Till Eve our mother learnt to sin.
When first she put the covering on,
Her robe of innocence was gone;
And yet her children vainly boast
In the sad marks of glory lost.
How proud we are! how fond to shew
Our clothes, and call them rich and new,
When the poor sheep and silkworms wore
That very clothing long before!
The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I:
Let me be dress'd fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.
Then will I set my heart to find
Inward adornings of the mind;
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.
No more shall worms with me compare,
This is the raiment angels wear:
The Son of God, when here below,
Put on this blest apparel too.
It never fades, it ne'er grows old,
Nor fears the rain, nor moth, nor mould:
It takes no spot, but still refines;
The more 'tis worn, the more it shines.
In this on earth would I appear,
Then go to heaven, and wear it there:
God will approve it in his sight;
'Tis his own work, and his delight.
'Tis the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain,
'You have waked me too soon! I must slumber again!'
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed
Turn his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber!'
Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without number;
And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
Assistant: Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn, and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
He had took better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me!
That man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who have taught me by times to love working and reading!'
These Emmets, how little they are in our eyes!
We tread them to dust, and a troop of them dies,
Without our regard or concern:
Yet, as wise as we are, if we went to their school,
There's many a sluggard and many a fool
Some lessons of wisdom might learn.
They wear not their time out in sleeping or play,
But gather up corn in a sunshiny day,
And for winter they lay up their stores:
They manage their work in such regular forms,
One would think they foresaw all the frosts and the storms,
And so brought their food within doors.
But I have less sense than a poor creeping Ant,
If I take not due care for the things I shall want,
Nor provide against dangers in time:
When death or old age shall once stare in my face,
What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,
If I trifle away all their prime!
Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in bloom,
Let me think what shall serve me when sickness shall come,
And pray that my sins be forgiven.
Let me read in good books, and believe, and obey;
That, when death turns me out of this cottage of clay,
I may dwell in a palace in heaven.
Abroad in the meadows, to see the young lambs
Run sporting about by the side of their dams,
With fleeces so clean and so white;
Or a nest of young doves in a large open cage
When they play all in love, without anger or rage,
How much may we learn from the sight!
If we had been ducks, we might dabble in mud;
Or dogs, we might play till it ended in blood:
So foul and so fierce are their natures;
But Thomas and William, and such pretty names,
Should be cleanly and harmless as doves or as lambs,
Those lovely sweet innocent creatures.
Not a thing that we do, nor a word that we say,
Should injure another in jesting or play,
For he's still in earnest that's hurt:
How rude are the boys that throw pebbles and mire;
There's none but a madman will fling about fire,
And tell you "'Tis all but in sport!"
Why should I join with those in play
In whom I've no delight;
Who curse and swear, but never pray;
Who call ill names, and fight?
I hate to hear a wanton song:
Their words offend my ears:
I should not dare defile my tongue
With language such as theirs.
Away from fools I'll turn my eyes,
Nor with the scoffers go:
I would be walking with the wise,
That wiser I may grow.
From one rude boy, that's used to mock,
They learn the wicked jest:
One sickly sheep infects the flock,
And poisons all the rest.
My God, I hate to walk or dwell
With sinful children here:
Then let me not be sent to hell,
Where none but sinners are.
Why should I deprive my neighbor
Of his goods against his will?
Hands were made for honest labor,
Not to plunder, or to steal.
'Tis a foolish self-deceiving
By such tricks to hope for gain:
All that's ever got by thieving
Turns to sorrow, shame, and pain.
Have not Eve and Adam taught us
Their sad profit to compute,
To what dismal state they brought us
When they stole forbidden fruit?
Oft we see a young beginner
Practise little pilfering ways,
Till grown up a harden'd sinner,
Then the gallows ends his days.
Theft will not be always hidden,
Though we fancy none can spy:
When we take a thing forbidden,
God beholds it with his eye.
Guard my heart, O God of heaven,
Lest I covet what's not mine;
Lest I steal what is not given,
Guard my heart and hands from sin.
How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May:
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the Rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field!
When its leaves are all dead and fine colors are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
So frail is the youth and the beauty of man,
Though they bloom and look gay like the Rose;
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain,
Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth and my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty:
This will scent like a Rose when I'm dead.
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Miss Vanity's Holiday.
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