Than in a given face However in she went Leaving the subject of her discontent Thus hailed the most vociferous of men: Says he, "I shan't!" Down went the sash, As if devoted to "eternal smash." (Another illustration Of acted imprecation,) While close at hand, uncomfortably near, The thing was hard to stand! The music-master could not stand it, Made up directly to the tattered man, And thus in broken sentences began: Into two parts my head you split My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit, You have no business in a place so still! You ought to work you have not some complaint You are not cripple in your back or bones Your voice is strong enough to break some stones" Says he, "It ain't." "I say you ought to labor! You are in a young case, You have not sixty years upon your face, To come and beg your neighbor And discompose his music with a noise No coach, no horses, no postillion: Says he, "I must! I'm singing for the million!" T. Hood. CCCLVIII. ODE TO MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS. THOU happy, happy elf! (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he 's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite, With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestruck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy! There goes my ink.) Thou cherub, but of earth; Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey (He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!) With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!) (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) I cannot write unless he's sent above.) T. Hood. |