For when he was born he astonished all by, With their “Law, dear me!” “Did ever you see?” He’d a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye, A hat all awry— An octagon tie— And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye. He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap, With his “Oh, dear, oh!” And his “Hang it! ’oo know!” And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap— “My friends, it’s a tap Dat is not worf a rap.” (Now this was remarkably excellent pap.) He’d chuck his nurse under the chin, and he’d say, With his “Fal, lal, lal”— “’Oo doosed fine gal!” This shocking precocity drove ’em away: “A month from to-day Is as long as I’ll stay— Then I’d wish, if you please, for to toddle away.” His father, a simple old gentleman, he With nursery rhyme And “Once on a time,” Would tell him the story of “Little Bo-P,” “So pretty was she, So pretty and wee, As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be.” But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox, With his “C’ck! Oh, my!— Go along wiz ’oo, fie!” Would exclaim, “I’m afraid ’oo a socking ole fox.” Now a father it shocks, And it whitens his locks, When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox. The name of his father he’d couple and pair (With his ill-bred laugh, And insolent chaff) With those of the nursery heroines rare— Virginia the Fair, Or Good Goldenhair, Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear. “There’s Jill and White Cat” (said the bold little brat, With his loud, “Ha, ha!”) “’Oo sly ickle Pa! Wiz ’oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and ’oo Mrs. Jack Sprat! I’ve noticed ’oo pat _My_ pretty White Cat— I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!” He early determined to marry and wive, For better or worse With his elderly nurse— Which the poor little boy didn’t live to contrive: His hearth didn’t thrive— No longer alive, He died an enfeebled old dotard at five! MORAL. Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew, With wrinkled hose And spectacled nose, Don’t marry at all—you may take it as true If ever you do The step you will rue, For your babes will be elderly—elderly too. TO PHŒBE. {59} “GENTLE, modest little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half an hour, Love me, love me, little fay.” Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming If I loved you, PHŒBE dear.