The lazy boy! and what's his name?
I should not like to tell;
But don't you think it is a shame,
That he can't read or spell.
He'd rather swing upon a gate,
Or paddle in a brook,
Than take his pencil and his slate,
Or try to con a book.
There, see! he's lounging down the street,
His hat without a brim,
He rather drags than lifts his feet--
His face unwashed and grim.
He's lolling now against a post;
But if you've seen him once,
You'll know the lad among a host
For what he is--a dunce.
Don't ask me what's the urchin's name;
I do not choose to tell;
But this you'll know--it is the same
As his who does not blush for shame
That he don't read or spell.