A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.
I MARVELL'D why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I ask'd her why she cried;
The damsel answer'd, with a groan,
"I've got a pain inside!
"I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven
Said I, "What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?''
She answer'd, "Only seven!"
"And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?" quoth I.
"Oh! please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!"
"If that's the case," I stammer'd out,
"Of course you 've had eleven
The maiden answer'd, with a pout,
"I ain't had more nor seven!"
I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, "I'm bad at riddles,
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.
"Now, if you don't reform," said I,
"You'll never go to heaven."
But all In vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
"I ain't had more nor seven."