By uncle Doctor on a message sent,
He stopp’d to play, and lost it as he went.
His grave aunt Martha, with a frown austere
And a rough hand, produced a transient fear;
But Tom, to whom his rude companions taught 500
Language as rude, vindictive measures sought;
He used such words that, when she wish’d to speak
Of his offence, she had her words to seek.
The little wretch had call’d her—’twas a shame
To think such thought, and more to name such name.