Yet she is never easy, never glad,
Because she has not children. Well-a-day!
If she could know how hard her mother worked,
And what ado I had, and what a moil
With my half-dozen! Children, ay, forsooth,
They bring their own love with them when they come,
But if they come not there is peace and rest;
The pretty lambs! and yet she cries for more:
Why the world's full of them, and so is heaven--
They are not rare.

_G._ No, mother, not at all;
But Hannah must not keep our Fanny long--
She spoils her.

_M._ Ah! folks spoil their children now;
When I was a young woman 'twas not so;
We made our children fear us, made them work,
Kept them in order.

_G._ Were not proud of them--
Eh, mother?

_M._ I set store by mine, 'tis true,
But then I had good cause.

_G._ My lad, d'ye hear?
Your Granny was not proud, by no means proud!
She never spoilt your father--no, not she,
Nor ever made him sing at harvest-home,