Thethe lipth can never truly thay.
How mournful, too, while thuth I kneel,
With nervouthneth my blith to mar,
And dream each moment that I feel
The boot-toe of thy thtern papa.
Or yet to fanthy that I hear
A thudden order to decamp,
Ath dithagreeably thevere
Ath—“Get out you infernal thcamp!”
Yet recklethly I pauthe by thee,