Short Funny Brother Poems for Cards, Birthdays, and Siblings

Joy to Philip! he this day
Has his long coats cast away,
And (the childish season gone)
Put the manly breeches on.

Officer on gay parade,
Red-coat in his first cockade,
Bridegroom in his wedding trim,
Birthday beau surpassing him,
Never did with conscious gait
Strut about in half the state
Or the pride (yet free from sin)
Of my little Manikin:
Never was there pride or bliss
Half so rational as his.

Sashes, frocks, to those that need ’em,
Philip’s limbs have got their freedom—
He can run, or he can ride,
And do twenty things beside,
Which his petticoats forbad;
Is he not a happy lad?

Now he’s under other banners
He must leave his former manners;
Bid adieu to female games
And forget their very names;
Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek,
Sports for girls and punies weak!
Baste-the-bear he now may play at,
Leap-frog, football sport away at;
Show his skill and strength at cricket,
Mark his distance, pitch his wicket;
Run about in winter’s snow
Till his cheeks and fingers glow;
Climb a tree or scale a wall
Without any fear to fall.

If he get a hurt or bruise,
To complain he must refuse,
Though the anguish and the smart
Go unto his little heart;
He must have his courage ready,
Keep his voice and visage steady;
Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum,
That a tear may never come;
And his grief must only speak
From the colour in his cheek.

This and more he must endure,
Hero he in miniature.
This and more must now be done,
Now the breeches are put on.

SISTER

Through the house what busy joy
Just because the infant boy
Has a tiny tooth to show!
I have got a double row,
All as white and all as small;
Yet no one cares for mine at all.

He can say but half a word,
Yet that single sound’s preferr’d
To all the words that I can say
In the longest summer day.
He cannot walk; yet if he put
With mimic motion out his foot,
As if he thought he were advancing,
It’s prized more than my best dancing.

BROTHER

Sister, I know you jesting are,
Yet O! of jealousy beware.
If the smallest seed should be
In your mind, of jealousy,
It will spring and it will shoot
Till it bear the baneful fruit.

I remember you, my dear,
Young as is this infant here.
There was not a tooth of those
Your pretty even ivory rows,
But as anxiously was watch’d
Till it burst its shell new-hatch’d
As if it a phoenix were,
Or some other wonder rare.

So when you began to walk—
So when you began to talk—
As now, the same encomiums pass’d
’Tis not fitting this should last
Longer than our infant days;
A child is fed with milk and praise.

Come, my little Robert, near—
Fie! what filthy hands are here!
Who, that e’er could understand
The rare structure of a hand,
With its branching fingers fine,
Work itself of hands divine,
Strong, yet delicately knit,
For ten thousand uses fit,
Overlaid with so clear skin
You may see the blood within,—
Who this hand would choose to cover
With a crust of dirt all over,
Till it look’d in hue and shape
Like the forefoot of an ape!

Man or boy that works or plays
In the fields or the highways,
May, without offence or hurt,
From the soil contract a dirt
Which the next clear spring or river
Washes out and out for ever—
But to cherish stains impure,
Soil deliberate to endure,
On the skin to fix a stain
Till it works into the grain,
Argues a degenerate mind,
Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined,
Wanting in that self-respect
Which does virtue best protect.

All-endearing cleanliness,
Virtue next to godliness,
Easiest, cheapest, needfull’st duty,
To the body health and beauty;
Who that’s human would refuse it,
When a little water does it?

Jack and Jill
Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down,
And broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.