ONLY SEVEN.

(A Pastoral Story, after Wordsworth)

I marvelled 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 asked her why she cried;

The damsel answered, 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 answered, '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 stammered out,

'Of course you've had eleven;'

The maiden answered, with a pout,

'I ain't had more nor seven!'

I wondered hugely what she meant,

And said, 'I'm bad at riddles,

But I know where little girls are sent

For telling tarradiddles.

'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!'

POSTSCRIPT.

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I'd better call my song,

'Lines after Ache-inside.'