"Confound it," quoth Papa--perhaps The ban was deeper, but the lapse Of time has drowned it: Besides, 'tis badness to suppose A worse, when goodness only knows He meant _Confound it_. The butcher's book--that unctuous diary-- Had made my Parent's temper fiery, And bubble over: So quite in spite he flung it down, And spilt the ink, and spoilt his own Fine table-cover Of scarlet cloth! Papa cried "pish!" Which did not mean he did not wish He'd been more heedful: "Good luck," said he, "this cloth will dip, And make a famous pair--get Snip To do the needful." 'Twas thus that I went back to school In garb no boy could ridicule, And eft becoming A jolly child--I plunged in debt For tarts--and promised fair to get The prize for summing. But, no! my schoolmates soon began Again to mock my outward man, And make me hate 'em! Long sitting will broadcloth abrade, The dye wore off--and so displayed A red substratum! To both my Parents then I flew-- Mama shed tears, Papa cried "Pooh, Come, stop this racket:" He'd still some cloth, so Snip was bid To stitch me on two tails; he did, And spoilt my jacket! And then the boys, despite my wails, Would slily come and lift my tails, And smack me soundly. O, weak Mama! O, wrathful Dad! Although your exploits drove me mad, Ye loved me fondly. Good Friends, our little ones (who feel Such bitter wounds, which only heal As wisdom mellows) Need sympathy in deed and word; So never let them look absurd Beside their fellows. My wife, who likes the Things I've doft Sublimes her sentiments, for oft, She'll take, and ... air them! --You little Puss, you love this pair, And yet you never seem to care To let me wear them. BEGGARS. I am pacing Pall Mall in a wrapt reverie,-- I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me,-- When up creeps a ragged and shivering wretch, Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch. He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat, A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat; For he says, "Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear; Just try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air." He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it; He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet. I pause ... and pass on--and beside the club fire I settle that Sophy is all I desire. As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophe, Which rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy, I half tumble over an "object" unnerving-- So frightful a hag must be "highly deserving."