Within, a pea-soup colour'd fragment she spied, Of the hue of a November fog in Cheapside, Or a bad piece of gingerbread spoilt in the baking.-- --I still hear her cry,-- "I wish I may die If here isn't Tom's Shirt, that's been so long a-making! My gracious me! Well,--only to see! I declare it's as yellow as yellow can be! Why, it looks just as though't had been soak'd in green tea. Dear me! _Did_ you _ever_?-- But come--'twill be clever To bring matters round; so I'll do my endeavour-- 'Better Late,' says an excellent proverb, 'than Never!'-- It _is_ stain'd, to be sure; but 'grass-bleaching' will bring it To rights 'in a jiffy,'--We'll wash it, and wring it; Or, stay,--'Hudson's Liquor' Will do it still quicker, And--" Here the new maid chimed in, "Ma'am, Salt of Lemon Will make it, in no time, quite fit for the Gemman!"-- So they "set in the gathers,"--the large round the collar, While those at the wrist-bands of course were much smaller,-- The button-holes now were at length "overcast;" Then a button itself was sewn on--'twas the last! All's done! All's won! Never under the sun Was Shirt so late finish'd--so early begun!-- --The work would defy The most critical eye. It was "bleach'd,"--it was wash'd,--it was hung out to dry,-- It was mark'd on the tail with a T, and an I! On the back of a chair it Was placed, just to air it, In front of the fire.--"Tom to-morrow shall wear it!"-- -_O cæca mens hominum!_--Fanny, good soul, Left her charge for one moment--but one--a vile coal Bounced out from the grate, and set fire to the whole! * * * * * Had it been Doctor Arnott's new stove--not a grate;-- Had the coal been a "Lord Mayor's coal,"--viz.: a slate;-- What a diff'rent tale had I had to relate! And Aunt Fan--and my Shirt--been superior to Fate!-- One moment--no more! --Fan open'd the door! The draught made the blaze ten times worse than before; And Aunt Fanny sank down--in despair--on the floor! You may fancy perhaps Agrippina's amazement, When, looking one fine moonlight night from her casement, She saw, while thus gazing, All Rome a-blazing, And, losing at once all restraint on her temper, or Feelings, exclaimed, "Hang that Scamp of an Emperor, Although he's my son!-- --He thinks it prime fun, No doubt!--While the flames are demolishing Rome, There's my Nero a-fiddling, and singing 'Sweet Home!'" --Stay--I'm really not sure 'twas that lady who said The words I've put down, as she stepp'd into bed,-- On reflection, I rather believe _she_ was dead; But e'en when at College, I Fairly acknowledge, I Never was very precise in Chronology; So, if there's an error, pray set down as mine a Mistake of no very great moment--in fine, a Mere slip--'twas some Pleb's wife, if not Agrippina.