And fat Fenetta bobs, and says,
"No, thank ye, mam,—I'm 'ful'!"
Alone amid the festive throng
One tiny brow is sad!
One cherub face is wet with grief—
What ails you little lad?
Why still with scarifying sleeve
That tearful visage rub?
Ah! much I fear, my gentle boy,
You don't enjoy your grub!