by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
Children, you are very little, And your bones are very brittle; If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately. You must still be bright and quiet, And content with simple diet; And remain, through all bewild'ring, Innocent and honest children. Happy hearts and happy faces, Happy play in grassy spaces - That was how in ancient ages Children grew to kings and sages. But the unkind and the unruly, And the sort who eat unduly, They must never hope for glory - Theirs is quite a different story! Cruel children, crying babies, All grow up as geese and gabies, Hated, as their age increases, By their nephews and their nieces.