The Squire's Daughter
We crawled about the nursery
In tenderest years in tether,
At six we waded in the sea
And caught our colds together.
At ten we practised playing at
A kind of heathen cricket,
A croquet mallet was the bat,
The Squire's old hat the wicket.
At twelve, the cricket waxing slow,
With home-made bow and arrow
We took to shooting—once I know
I all but hit a sparrow.
She took birds' nests from easy trees,
I climbed the oaks and ashes,
'Twas deadly work for hands and knees,
Deplorable for sashes.
At hide and seek one summer day
We played in merry laughter,
'Twas then she hid her heart away,
I never found it after.
So time slipped by until my call,
For out of the professions
I chose the Bar as best of all,
And joined the Loamshire Sessions.
The reason for it was that there
Her father, short and pursy,
Doled out scant justice in the chair
And even scanter mercy.