"BABY BUNG."
Nurse R-tch-e loquitur:—
Which no doubt at the best it's a bothersome babe; though my bounden duty it were to make much of it;
I'm free to say, if I had my way, it's the dickens a bit I should come within touch of it.
'Tis a greedy child, and a noisy too, of a colicky turn, and pertikler windy;
And, wherever the blessed infant's found, you may bet your boots there'll be stir and shindy.
The family is a rucktious one from their cradles up, and the plague of nusses.
You may cosset and cordial 'em up as you will; though you calls 'em "blessings," you finds 'em cusses.
Many a monthly they've worritted out of her life, almost, with their fractious snarlings,
Though it's most as much as your place is worth to aggerawate 'em—the little darlings!
And this one—well, it would raise a yell you might fancy came from a fog-horn's throttle,
If it wasn't for that there soothing-syrup I've artfully smuggled into its bottle.
It's strongish stuff, and I've dropped enough in the Babby's gruel to prove a fixer;
For this kid's riot you cannot quiet with LAWSON'S Cordial or Caine's Elixir.
Them parties think they can mix a drink as'll take the shine out o' Godfrey or Daffy,
But they're both mistook, they don't know their book, though one is "genial," and t'other chaffy.
They'll raise a row when they find out how I have managed to silence the child, by drugging.
Wot's the use of fuss? Where's the monthly nuss as can manage without a bit of 'umbugging!
And now, havin' fixed the hinfant up, I'm a going to drop him in somebody's doorway.
Hullo! Here's the house of that County Council! I fancies now it is rather in your way!
You're up to everythink, you swells are, from "Betterment" to the claims of Cabby.
You've a lot to learn; so jest have a turn—as I hope you'll like—at this Blessed Babby!
It "turns up on a doorstep unbeknown," like the child referred to by Dickens's Sairey.
Come! Here's the Babby, and there's the Bottle! I'm no monopolist—quite contrairy.
Without its Bottle I couldn't leave it; the babe might 'unger, wich Evins forbid of it!
But, havin' purvided for it so nicely, I'll shunt it on you, gents,—(aside)—and
glad to get rid of it!
"Allowed to Starve."—The Editor begs to acknowledge remittance from "Miss G. D." and "W. M.," in aid of the Balaclava Survivors, which he has handed to the Editor of the St. James's Gazette, who is in charge of this Fund.