Then the babe was cross’d and bless’d amain! But instead of the Kate, or Ann, or Jane, Which the humbler female endorses-- Instead of one name, as some people prefix, Kilmansegg went at the tails of six, Like a carriage of state with its horses. Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs! The golden mugs and the golden jugs That lent fresh rays to the midges! The golden knives, and the golden spoons, The gems that sparkled like fairy boons, It was one of the Kilmansegg’s own saloons, But look’d like Rundell and Bridge’s! Gold! and gold! the new and the old, The company ate and drank from gold, They revell’d, they sang, and were merry; And one of the Gold Sticks rose from his chair, And toasted “the Lass with the golden hair” In a bumper of Golden Sherry. Gold! still gold! it rain’d on the nurse, Who--un-like Danäe--was none the worse! There was nothing but guineas glistening! Fifty were given to Doctor James, For calling the little Baby names, And for saying, Amen! The Clerk had ten, And that was the end of the Christening. HER CHILDHOOD. Our youth! our childhood! that spring of springs! ’Tis surely one of the blessedest things That nature ever invented! When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth, And the poor are rich in spirits and health, And all with their lots contented! There’s little Phelim, he sings like a thrush, In the selfsame pair of patchwork plush, With the selfsame empty pockets, That tempted his daddy so often to cut His throat, or jump in the water-butt-- But what cares Phelim? an empty nut Would sooner bring tears to their sockets. Give him a collar without a skirt, (That’s the Irish linen for shirt) And a slice of bread with a taste of dirt, (That’s Poverty’s Irish butter), And what does he lack to make him blest? Some oyster-shells, or a sparrow’s nest, A candle-end, and a gutter. But to leave the happy Phelim alone, Gnawing, perchance, a marrowless bone, For which no dog would quarrel-- Turn we to little Miss Kilmansegg Cutting her first little toothy-peg With a fifty-guinea coral-- A peg upon which About poor and rich Reflection might hang a moral. Born in wealth, and wealthily nursed, Capp’d, papp’d, napp’d, and lapp’d from the first On the knees of Prodigality, Her childhood was one eternal round Of the game of going on Tickler’s ground Picking up gold--in reality. With extempore cartes she never play’d, Or the odds and ends of a Tinker’s trade, Or little dirt pies and puddings made, Like children happy and squalid; The very puppet she had to pet, Like a bait for the “Nix my Dolly” set, Was a Dolly of gold--and solid!