W OULD'ST be happy, little child,
Be thou innocent and mild:
Like the patient lamb and dove,
Full of meekness, full of love;
Modestly thy looks compose,
Sweet and blushing like the rose.

When in gardens thou dost play,
In the pleasant flowery May,
And art driven by sudden showers
From the fresh and fragrant flowers,
Think how short that pleasure is
Which the world esteemeth bliss.

When the fruits are sour and green,
Come not near them, be not seen
Touching, tasting, till the sun
His sweet ripening work hath done;
Think how harsh thy nature is
Till heaven ripen thee for bliss.

Or lest thou should'st drop away,
Like the leaf that fell today,
Still be ready to depart,
Love thy God with all thy heart;
Then thou wilt ascend on high,
From time to eternity.

Paradise is sweeter there,
Than the flowers and roses here;
Here's glimpse, and then away,
There 'twill be forever day;
Where thou ever in heaven's spring
Shalt with saints and angels sing.