Yes, let me tell of Jennet, my last child; In her the charms of all the rest ran wild, And sprouted as they pleased. Still by my side, I own she was my favourite, was my pride, Since first she labour'd round my neck to twine, Or clasp'd both little hands in one of mine: And when the season broke, I've seen her bring Lapfuls of flowers, and then the girl would sing Whole songs, and halves, and bits, O, with such glee! If playmates found a favourite, it was she. Her lively spirit lifted her to joy; To distance in the race a clumsy boy Would raise the flush of conquest in her eye, And all was dance, and laugh, and liberty. Yet not hard-hearted, take me right, I beg, The veriest romp that ever wagg'd a leg Was Jennet; but when pity soothed her mind, Prompt with her tears, and delicately kind. The half-fledged nestling, rabbit, mouse, or dove, By turns engaged her cares and infant love; And many a one, at the last doubtful strife, Warm'd in her bosom, started into life. At thirteen she was all that Heaven could send, My nurse, my faithful clerk, my lively friend; Last at my pillow when I sunk to sleep, First on my threshold soon as day could peep: I heard her happy to her heart's desire, With clanking pattens, and a roaring fire. Then, having store of new-laid eggs to spare, She fill'd her basket with the simple fare, And weekly trudged (I think I see her still) To sell them at yon house upon the hill. Oft have I watch'd her as she stroll'd along, Heard the gate bang, and heard her morning song; And, as my warm ungovern'd feelings rose, Said to myself, "Heaven bless her! there she goes." Long would she tarry, and then dancing home, Tell how the lady bade her oft'ner come, And bade her talk and laugh without control; For Jennet's voice was music to the soul, My tale shall prove it:--For there dwelt a son, An only child, and where there is but one, Indulgence like a mildew reigns, from whence Mischief may follow if that child wants sense. But Alfred was a youth of noble mind, With ardent passions, and with taste refined; All that could please still courted heart and hand, Music, joy, peace, and wealth, at his command; Wealth, which his widow'd mother deem'd his own; Except the poor, she lived for him alone. Yet would she weep by stealth when he was near, But check'd all sighs to spare his wounded ear; For from his cradle he had never seen Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green. But all life's blessings centre not in sight; For Providence, that dealt him one long night, Had given, in pity to the blooming boy, Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy. Fond to excess was he of all that grew; The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew, Across his path, as if in playful freak, Would dash his brow, and weep upon his cheek; Each varying leaf that brush'd where'er he came, Press'd to his rosy lip he call'd by name; He grasp'd the saplings, measured every bough, Inhaled the fragrance that the spring months throw