What different dooms our birthdays bring For instance, one little manikin thing Survives to wear many a wrinkle; While Death forbids another to wake, And a son that it took nine moons to make Expires without even a twinkle! Into this world we come like ships, Launch’d from the docks, and stocks, and slips, For fortune fair or fatal; And one little craft is cast away In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay, While another rides safe at Port Natal. What different lots our stars accord! This babe to be hail’d and woo’d as a Lord! And that to be shunn’d like a leper! One, to the world’s wine, honey, and corn, Another, like Colchester native, born To its vinegar, only, and pepper. One is litter’d under a roof Neither wind nor waterproof-- That’s the prose of Love in a Cottage-- A puny, naked, shivering wretch, The whole of whose birthright would not fetch, Though Robins himself drew up the sketch, The bid of “a mess of pottage.” Born of Fortunatus’s kin, Another comes tenderly ushered in To a prospect all bright and burnish’d: No tenant he for life’s back slums-- He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes To a lodging ready furnish’d. And the other sex--the tender--the fair-- What wide reverses of fate are there! Whilst Margaret, charm’d by the Bulbul rare, In a garden of Gul reposes-- Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till--think of that, who find life so sweet!-- She hates the smell of roses! Not so with the infant Kilmansegg! She was not born to steal or beg, Or gather cresses in ditches; To plait the straw, or bind the shoe, Or sit all day to hem and sew, As females must--and not a few-- To fill their insides with stitches! She was not doom’d, for bread to eat, To be put to her hands as well as her feet-- To carry home linen from mangles-- Or heavy-hearted, and weary-limb’d, To dance on a rope in a jacket trimm’d With as many blows as spangles. She was one of those who by Fortune’s boon Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon In her mouth, not a wooden ladle: To speak according to poet’s wont, Plutus as sponsor stood at her font, And Midas rock’d the cradle. [Illustration: DUE AT MICHAELMAS.] [Illustration: CRANE-IOLOGY.] At her first _debut_ she found her head On a pillow of down, in a downy bed, With a damask canopy over. For although, by the vulgar popular saw, All mothers are said to be “in the straw,” Some children are born in clover. Her very first draught of vital air, It was not the common chameleon fare Of plebeian lungs and noses,-- No--her earliest sniff Of this world was a whiff Of the genuine Otto of Roses!