"I know it well, as you will see,
It tells my infant history:
This leaf will partly save the task
Of answ'ring what you're pleas'd to ask. |
That little infant whom you see
In basket laid,—that, Sir, is me,
Now grown to sad maturity. | } |
—It was within an Inn of Court,
Where busy Lawyers plead and sport;
Upon those stairs and thus enclos'd,
My new-born figure was expos'd. |
Of mercy they had little share
Whose cruel purpose plac'd me there,
And left me to the Lawyer's care; | } |
For, had th' Attorney been in town,
Who did those very chambers own,
I doubt what might have been my fate:
The thing was strange—the hour was late;
The work-house might be distant far,
And dubious been the nursings there.
But one, perchance, possess'd the floor
When I was laid beside the door,
Who would have felt a crying sin
Had he not ta'en the stranger in.
When I this pictur'd figure view,
So innocent—so helpless too,
A smile's contending with a tear,
On seeing what I now appear:
A pretty figure for a casket,—
A little Falstaff in the basket." |