At Cape Horn, as nauticals tell us;
And who,—oh who?—hasn't heard before
The dulcet tones of the infant roar?
Ear-piercing in at the drawing room door—
Down-bellowing, right thro' the nursery floor—
Like a hundred power bellows?
Alas! that the very rosiest wreath
Should ever be twined with a thorn beneath!
Forth peeping, from purple and damask sheath,
In a manner quite anti-floral;