His cage hung in the hall;
On Monday morning, May the third,
He couldn't sing at all.
And for this reason, mark,
Good people, great and small,
Because the pussey, for a lark,
Had eat him, bones and all.
“Ah!” cried Aunt F. approvingly, “that is a song! None of your frothy comic stuff that some folks (!!) is so fond of.”
She now entertained Uncle Timothy with an account, full of bombast and brag, of some grand weddings that had recently been celebrated in the Fubsy family,—the Candlerigs having condescended to adulterate the patrician blood of St. Giles's in-the-Fields with the plebeian puddle of the City Gardens, the sometime suburban retreat of the Fubsys, where they farmed a magnificent chateau, which, like the great Westphalian Baron de Thunder-tan-trounck's, had a door and a window. Uncle Timothy, to change the subject, called on Mr. Brutus Muff for a song.
“I never heered Mr. Muff sing, Mr. Timwig,” chimed the sisters simultaneously.