Afore we was thick with his set, when you snubbed him, and laughed him
to scorn,
And heaped naughty names on this kid, as you swore was his nat'ral
fust-born.
And now you come dandling, and doddling, and patting the brat on the
'ed,
And forgetting the things as you promiged, and backing on all as you
said.
Missis G., you do raly amaze me! This comes of our precious mix-up;
Which the child's no more like one of ourn than a pug's like a
tarrier-pup.

In the best-regulated o' fam'lies things will go askew, I'm aweer;
As I says to my friend Mrs. HARRIS, as says to me, "SAIREY, my dear,
You looks dragged, my sweet creetur," she says. "Missis HARRIS," I
makes 'er reply,
"When the 'art in one's buzzum beats 'ot, there's excuge for the tear
in one's heye.
Which wales isn't in it for worrit, my love, with your poor old pal,
SAIREY,
Along o' the Fam'ly," I says; "as things _do_ seem to go that
contrairey,
_My_ services now ain't required, with 'adoptions' all over the shop,
From Brummagem, yus, and elsewheres; and I ast 'Where is this thing to
stop?'
RITCHIE'S 'pick-up' was tryin', most tryin'; and as to those bad Irish
brats,
As BALFOUR interjuced--dear! jest fancy our Party adopting small Pats!
And now this here Brummagem babby! You say he's a promising cheild,
Missis G., and 'you're learning to love him!' All this makes old