No. V.—MY BUTTONS!
It wasn't that he blacked the plate
And rouged the boots, and breathed, half-choking,
Half-snorting, when he leaned to wait;
Although these habits are provoking.
It wasn't that he sang his fill,
Although his mouth with food was giving;
This latter, as a feat of skill,
Might have procured the lad a living.
It wasn't that he'd purchase hosts
Of squibs and sweets to mess the pantry;
That horrid boy, and broomstick-ghosts
On timid JANE would oft, and ANN try.
These petty peccadilloes might
Have all improved with careful training.—
It was his shameless appetite
That gave us cause for most complaining.
He swilled and stuffed as never mere
Adult voracity can own to;
He was a "growing boy," I fear;
I wonder much what he has grown to!
He wore away our forks and spoons
With hard, incessant gormandizing;
The Baker's, and, for some blue moons,
The Milkman's bill were quite surprising.
He cost us more in Butcher's meat
And Grocer's tea, and things from Cutlers,
He cost, I solemnly repeat,
Far more than two or three big Butlers.
And thus his fat increased until't
Became a show that sight bewilders;
We trembled for our mansion built,
You see, by noted Jerry-builders.
At length (you'll scarce the fact believe)
One evening, as we sat at dinner,
And strove our senses to deceive
By just imagining him thinner;
We heard a crack, a burst, a groan,
We felt a broadside round us battered,
We saw his buttons fiercely blown
About our heads, and piecemeal scattered!
The suit had split; the boy was bare
Of clothes designed to last for ages;
We gave him notice then and there—
This volume, so to speak, of pages!
SONG TO BE SUNG IN HAYMARKET ORCHESTRA DURING OVERTURE.—"Oh, why should we wait till to-morrow? See Queen of Manoa to-night!"