Page:Poems For Our Children (1830).djvu/11



If ever I see,

On bush or tree,

Young birds in a pretty nest,

I must not, in my play,

Steal the birds away,

To grieve their mother's breast.

My mother I know,

Would sorrow so,

Should I be stolen away—

So I 'll speak to the birds,

In my softest words,

Nor hurt them in my play.