“With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows,
  I throb and ache all over;
I’m quite convinc’d the field of Mars
  Is not a field of clover!

“O why did I a soldier turn
  For any royal Guelph? 
I might have been a Butcher, and
  In business for myself!

“O why did I the bounty take? 
  (And here he gasp’d for breath)
My shillingsworth of ’list is nail’d
  Upon the door of death!

“Without a coffin I shall lie
  And sleep my sleep eternal: 
Not ev’n a shell—­my only chance
  Of being made a Kernel!

“O Patty dear, our wedding bells
  Will never ring at Chester! 
Here I must lie in Honor’s bed,
  That isn’t worth a tester!

“Farewell, my regimental mates,
  With whom I used to dress! 
My corps is changed, and I am now
  In quite another mess.

“Farewell, my Patty dear, I have
  No dying consolations,
Except, when I am dead, you’ll go
  And see th’ Illuminations.”

A LAY OF REAL LIFE

    “Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths,
    and some with a golden ladle.”  GOLDSMITH.

    “Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and
    with silver ones.”  SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born,
Sold every acre, grass or corn,
And left the next heir all forlorn? 
                        My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse. 
And physicked me and made me worse,
Till infancy became a curse? 
                        My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,
A comfort to my mother dear,
And Mr. Pope, the overseer? 
                       My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me “ugly little sin?”
                       My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,
And took me home—­and made me work,
But managed half my meals to shirk? 
                       My Aunt.

Who “of all earthly things” would boast,
“He hated others’ brats the most,”
And therefore made me feel my post? 
                       My Uncle.

Who got in scrapes, an endless score,
And always laid them at my door,
Till many a bitter bang I bore? 
                       My Cousin.

Who took me home when mother died,
Again with father to reside,
Black shoes, clean knives, run far and wide? 
                       My Stepmother.

Who marred my stealthy urchin joys
And when I played cried “What a noise?”—­
Girls always hector over boys—­
                       My Sister.

Who used to share in what was mine,
Or took it all, did he incline,
’Cause I was eight, and he was nine? 
                       My Brother.