His anxious Mother sadly now survey’d
The alteration that disease had made;
Saw his pale look, his sunk, and languid Eye,
Then gently said (with a Maternal sigh),
‘I see you’re ill, my Son, with pain, and grief:
‘What shall we do to give our John relief?’
‘Ah, Dame! your slops and stuffs I see no good in—
‘Give him a belly-full of beef and pudding;
‘The Boy’s half-starv’d—o’drat that cursed Spain:
‘Thank God! my child’s come back alive again.’