I thought he were took with the Morbus one day, I did with his nasty angle! For "oh dear," says he, and burst out in a cry, "oh my gut is all got of a tangle!" It's a shame to teach a young boy such words-whose blood wouldn't chill in their veins To hear him, as I overheard him one day, a-talking of blowing out brains? And didn't I quarrel with Sally the cook, and a precious scolding I give her, * How dare you," says I, "for to stench the whole house by keeping that stinking liver?" Twas enough to breed a fever, it was! they smelt it next door at the Bagots', But it wasn't breeding no fever-not it! 'twas my son a breeding of maggots! I declare that I couldn't touch meat for a week, for it all seemed tainting and going, And after turning my stomach so, they turned to blueflies, all buzzing and blowing; Boys are nasty enough, goodness knows, of themselves, without putting live things in their craniums; Well, what next? but he pots a whole cargo of worms along with my choice geraniums. And another fine trick, tho' it wasn't found out, till the house maid had given us warning, He fished at the golden fish in the bowl, before we were up and down in the morning. I'm sure it was lucky for Ellen, poor thing, that she'd got so attentive a lover, As bring her fresh fish when the others deceas'd, which they did a dozen times over! Then a whole new loaf was short! for I know, of course, when our bread goes faster, And I made a stir with the bill in my hand, and the man was sent off by his master; But, oh dear, I thought I should sink thro' the earth, with the weight of my own reproaches, 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, For the cocks looked naked about necks and tails, and it wasn't their moulting season; And sure and surely, when we came to enquire, there was cause for their screeching and cackles, For the mischief confess'd he had picked them a bit, for I think he called them the hackles. A pretty tussle we had about that! but as if it warn't picking enough, When the winter comes on, to the muff-box I goes, just to shake out my sable muff "O mercy!" thinks I, "there's the moth in the house!" for the fur was all gone in patches; And then at Ellen's chinchilly I look, and its state of destruction just matches But it wasn't no moth, Mr. Walton, but flies-sham flies to go trolling and trouting, For his father's great coat was all safe and sound, and that first set me a-doubting. A plague, say I, on all rods and lines, and on young or old watery danglers! And after all that you'll talk of such stuff as no harm in the world about anglers! And when all is done, all our worry and fuss, why, we've never had nothing worth dishing; So you see, Mister Walton, no good comes at last of your famous book about fishing. As for Robert's, I burnt it a twelvemonth ago; but it turned up too late to be lucky, For he'd got it by heart, as I found to the cost of Your servant, JANE ELIZABETH STUCKEY. TO MARY HOUSEMAID. M ON VALENTINE'S DAY. ARY, you know I've no love-nonsense, Though Beauty hasn't form'd your feature, May wish that she was half as plain. Your virtues would not rise an inch, Although your shape was two foot taller, And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller. You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty, But, doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty. Let Susan flourish her fair arms And at your old legs sneer and scoff, TO A BAD RIDER. HY, Mr. Rider, why Your nag so ill indorse, man? You're mounted, but no horseman? II. With elbows out so far, This thought you can't debar mc Though no Dragoon-Hussar You're surely of the army ! III. I hope to turn M.P. You have not any notion, CRUEL One! TO A CRITIC. How littel dost thou knowe Thou mayest have slaine; are they beganne to blowe Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges growe In soe brighte hues of Lovelinesse indeede ! |