I really thought thou had'st been much genteeler,
_Polite_-o was thy grandfather, remember
Thou wert a Merchant Tailor, and a stealer
To school in younger days, in cold December,
Then did thy fingers, shiv'ring like a Russ,
Make thee to feel--thou could'st not feel for us.

At Charing Cross, the Golden Cross is thine
No longer; why, then hurry us so near it,
We do not in the little tap-room dine,
Where Greenwich cads and Walworth jarvies beer it,
This Mews is cold to the Exchange's glow,
Belle Sauvage Cross, thou'rt _beau sauvage_, I trow.

My usage is the best, I don't deny,
Thou'st fee'd the keeper, and he likes to feed us,
But, then the situation I decry,
But crying's useless--who the deuce will heed us?
Then, reader would you listen to my wail,
Come, and but see me, "I'll unfold my tail."

P.T.

* * * * *



CALCULATING CHILD.