Heigho!  Which it’s no use a frettin’.  But Fondlings!  Ah, well, I
        did think
  Our respectable fam’lies, though mixed, from sich ojus demeaning
        would shrink,
  Which no greater hinsult to me, the old reglar, could well be
        deviged;
  And though I’ve to live and to learn, I confess as this turn I’m
        serpriged. 
  A Fondling!!!  Turned up unbeknownst on a doorstep permiskus, no doubt. 
  And then to adopt him!  Oh dear, wot the plague is our Party about? 
  Wich to monthly to it were my pride; its legitermit offspring I’ve
        nussed
  Many years with the greatest success, but to-day I feels flurried and
        fussed,
  And my eyes is Saint Polge’s fontin with tears, and this brat is their
        source;
  As it isn’t no offspring of ourn—­of the fam’ly I mean, Ma’am, in
        course;
  But a Brummagem bantling, picked hup, as were not worth its swaddlin’
        and food,
  And I never yet knowed any brat from that source as turned out any
        good. 
  Missis G., Mum, it’s all a mistake, as you know in your ’art all the
        same,
  For you turned up your nose at the child when JOE CHAMBERLING give him
        a name,
  Afore we was thick with his set, when you snubbed him, and laughed him
        to scorn,
  And heaped naughty names on this kid, as you swore was his nat’ral
        fust-born. 
  And now you come dandling, and doddling, and patting the brat on the
        ’ed,
  And forgetting the things as you promiged, and backing on all as you
        said. 
  Missis G., you do raly amaze me!  This comes of our precious mix-up;
  Which the child’s no more like one of ourn than a pug’s like a
        tarrier-pup.

  In the best-regulated o’ fam’lies things will go askew, I’m aweer;
  As I says to my friend Mrs. HARRIS, as says to me, “SAIREY, my dear,
  You looks dragged, my sweet creetur,” she says.  “Missis HARRIS,” I
        makes ’er reply,
  “When the ’art in one’s buzzum beats ’ot, there’s excuge for the tear
        in one’s heye. 
  Which wales isn’t in it for worrit, my love, with your poor old pal,
        SAIREY,
  Along o’ the Fam’ly,” I says; “as things do seem to go that
        contrairey,
  My services now ain’t required, with ‘adoptions’ all over the shop,
  From Brummagem, yus, and elsewheres; and I ast ’Where is this thing to
        stop?’
  RITCHIE’S ‘pick-up’ was tryin’, most tryin’; and as to those bad Irish
        brats,
  As BALFOUR interjuced—­dear! jest fancy our Party adopting small Pats! 
  And now this here Brummagem babby!  You say he’s a promising cheild,
  Missis G., and ‘you’re learning to love him!’ All this makes old
        SAIREY feel wild. 
  It’s wus than kidnapping, this bizness