It grieves me, Emma, much to see How Pert and Rude you are; Sure, everybody must agree From Courtesy you’re far. What wicked Rudeness thus to jest On Mister Barton’s Toes: Poor Gentleman, he’s Uncle’s Guest, And Gout gives painful Throes. How very ill does it beseem A Child to play such Part: The Prisons of the World do teem With those of unkind Heart. THE CHATTERBOX I needs must beg you, Caroline, To cease your Chatter whilst I dine, It deafens every Ear. John Footman cannot hear my Words, And I have asked him twice for Curds And still he cannot hear. When Uncle Wilmot, from Malay, Comes here, to make his usual Stay, He surely will suppose That he is back in savage Lands, Where Heathens roam in impious Bands And feast upon their Foes. We all should learn to curb our Speech, Last Week we heard the Rector preach Upon this Rule; ’tis true If he your giddy Talk could hear His Sermons would be more severe, And he would preach on You. SOLICITUDE Come Matthew! set your Book aside, And Ann your Shawl put on, For in the Carriage we will ride To visit Uncle John. The Way is long so Bread we’ll take, And then, with Cups to fill, We will alight our Thirst to slake By some pellucid Rill. “Thanks, dear Papa,” the Youth did say, “But shall we ask Mama Her kindly Fears aside to lay Before we ride so far?” Yes, thoughtful Boy, his Sire replied, Your Words I now commend; Solicitude should be our Guide With Parent, as with Friend. [Illustration] ILL-TIMED LEVITY I scarce can speak, Bartholomew, I am so much displeased with you For all that has occur’d: Aunt Porter, who had come to stay, Has in her Chariot roll’d away Without a parting Word. Last Night, when all were sent to Dine, You took a Fish-hook and some Twine And, leaning o’er the Stair, When honour’d Guests went by Below Let slyly down the Hook, and so Secured it in her Hair. Alas! Aunt Porter, long denied That Crown which is a Woman’s Pride, And thinking, sure, no Ill, At Table duly took her Seat With seasoned Majesty replete And amiable Good-will. At last she rais’d her Hand appall’d And sudden found that she was Bald, And for her Speech did strive:-- The Scene I cannot now pursue, It has been given to very Few Such Moments to survive. Ah me! you cannot understand What Pow’r may lie in childish Hand E’en at such tender Age. Our Relative in high Disgust Will make Resentment, deep and just, Our only Heritage. THOMAS AND THE BEGGAR