For my own pretty son had made away with the loaf, to make pastry to feed the roaches! I vow I’ve suffered a martyrdom--with all sorts of frights and terrors surrounded! For I never saw him go out of the doors but I thought he’d come home to be drownded. And, sure enough, I set out one fine Monday to visit my married daughter, And there he was standing at Sadler’s Wells, a-performing with real water, It’s well he was off on the further side, for I’d have brain’d him else with my patten, For I thought he was safe at school, the young wretch! a studying Greek and Latin, And my ridicule basket he had got on his back, to carry his fishes and gentles; With a belt I knew he’d made from the belt of his father’s regimentals-- Well, I poked his rods and lines in the fire, and his father gave him a birching , But he’d gone too far to be easy cured of his love for chubbing and perching. One night he never came home to tea, and altho’ it was dark and dripping, His father set off to Wapping, poor man! for the boy had a turn for shipping; As for me I set up, and I sobbed and I cried for all the world like a babby, Till at twelve o’clock he rewards my fears with two gudging from Waltham Abbey! And a pretty sore throat and fever he caught, that brought me a fortnight’s hard nussing, Till I thought I should go to my grey-hair’d grave, worn out with the fretting and fussing; But at last he was cur’d, and we did have hopes that the fishing was cured as well, But no such luck! not a week went by before we’d have another such spell. Tho’ he never had got a penny to spend, for such was our strict intentions, Yet he was soon set up in tackle agin, for all boys have such quick inventions: And I lost my Lady’s Own Pocket Book, in spite of all my hunting and poking, Till I found it chuck full of tackles and hooks, and besides it had got a good soaking. Then one Friday morning, I gets a summoning note from a sort of a law attorney, For the boy had been trespassing people’s grounds while his father was gone a journey, And I had to go and hush it all up by myself, in an office at Hatton Garden; And to pay for the damage he’d done, to boot, and to beg some strange gentleman’s pardon. And wasn’t he once fished out himself, and a man had to dive to find him, And I saw him brought home with my motherly eyes and a mob of people behind him? Yes, it took a full hour to rub him to life--whilst I was a-screaming and raving, And a couple of guineas it cost us besides, to reward the humane man for his saving, And didn’t Miss Crump leave us out of her will, all along of her taking dudgeon? At her favourite cat being chok’d, poor Puss, with a hook sow’d up in a gudgeon? And old Brown complain’d that he pluck’d his live fowls, and not without show of reason,