THE DEATH OF THE "CHILDERSES."
NOT half-sovereigns were we, but ten-shilling bits,
The thin, jaundiced children of Childers;
To name us the public were put to their wits,
As some called us "Guilders," some "Gilders."
We buried our heads in our cradle, the Mint,
And were sparingly fed by our nurses;
In our life, which was brief, we received without stint
Abuse, imprecations, and curses.
No useless retorts did we ever return
To those who so coldly received us:
But we patiently bore each contemptuous spurn,
Till sweet death in his mercy relieved us.
Few and short were our moments on earth,
And they were brief snatches of sorrow;
Our parents were told at the time of our birth,
We were only for idiots to borrow.
We thought, as we lay in our embryo mould,
Of the fun we should have when grown older;
But we learnt that all glittering things are not gold,
That a "gilder" is hardly a "golder."
Lightly they talked of our humble alloy,
And how we were base and degraded;
And tried in all possible ways to annoy
Our lives, which already were faded.
Though half our heavy blows and kicks,
We never thought once of returning;
We passed over the "Styx" without passing the "Pyx,"
Or the wonders of life ever learning.
Slowly but gladly, too tired to laugh,
We made room for the use of our betters;
Heavy our grave-stone, and our epitaph
Was a column of newspaper letters.
DALETH.