Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/127

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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.
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!
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.
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.
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