Thou 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 on 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 playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale,
          In harmless sport and mirth,
      (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail)
        Thou human honey-bee, extracting honey
      From every blossom in the world that blows,
        Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny—­
      (Another tumble!—­that’s his precious nose!)

          Thy father’s pride and hope
      (He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
      With pure heart newly stamped 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 trials of dawning life—­
          (He’s got a knife!)

          Thou enviable being! 
      No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
          Play on, play on,
          My elfin John! 
      Toss the light ball—­bestride the stick,
      (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
      With fancies buoyant as the thistledown,
      Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
          With many a lamb-like frisk—­
      (He’s got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

          Thou pretty opening rose! 
      (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
      Balmy and breathing music like the South,
      (He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
      Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
      (I wish that window had an iron bar!)
      Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove—­
          (I’ll tell you what, my love,
      I cannot write, unless he’s sent above.)

’TWAS EVER THUS.

BY HENRY S. LEIGH.

        I never rear’d a young gazelle
          (Because, you see, I never tried);
        But, had it known and loved me well,
          No doubt the creature would have died. 
        My rich and aged uncle JOHN
          Has known me long and loves me well,
        But still persists in living on—­
          I would he were a young gazelle!