Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,
  Such a nectar there hung on each lip;
Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze,
  Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!

Your chin, it was one of Love’s favorite haunts,
  From its dimple he could not get loose;
Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants,
  Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full,
  With their ringlets of auburn so deep! 
Though now they look only like frizzles of wool,
  By a bramble torn off from a sheep!

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace,
  While in whiteness it vied with your arms;
Though now a grave ’kerchief you properly place,
  To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight,
  Though it now has two twists from upright—­
But bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate! 
  Though you be such a perfect old fright!

II.

The sun was slumbering in the West. 
  My daily labors past;
On Anna’s soft and gentle breast
  My head reclined at last;—­
The darkness clos’d around, so dear
  To fond congenial souls,
And thus she murmur’d at my ear,
  “My love, we’re out of coals!”

“That Mister Bond has call’d again,
  Insisting on his rent;
And all the Todds are coming up
  To see us, out of Kent;—­
I quite forgot to tell you John
  Has had a tipsy fall;—­
I’m sure there’s something going on
  With that vile Mary Hall!—­”

“Miss Bell has bought the sweetest silk,
  And I have bought the rest—­
Of course, if we go out of town,
  Southend will be the best.—­
I really think the Jones’s house
  Would be the thing for us;—­
I think I told you Mrs. Pope
  Had parted with her nus—­

“Cook, by the way, came up to-day,
  To bid me suit myself—­
And what d’ye think? the rats have gnawed
  The victuals on the shelf.—­
And, lord! there’s such a letter come,
  Inviting you to fight! 
Of course you don’t intend to go—­
  God bless you, dear, good night!”

III.  A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

      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,
Untouch’d by sorrow, and unsoil’d by sin—­
(Good heav’ns! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck! 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck,
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!)