With rosy niouth ever ready to squall,
Kicking and crowing and grasping "small,"
At its Indiarrabber dangle,—
Whilst tiny fists in the pillows lurk
That are destined perhaps for fighting the Turk,
And doing no end of mangling work,
Or perhaps, for working a mangle!
'Tis passing strange, that all over the earth
Men talk of the "stars" that "rule" at their birth,
For little such dazzling sponsors are worth,