Son—of whose sire, nothing small is said;

Quick, from your tongue, flashed your thought of head,

But you never yet took your wrath to bed.

On friends and relatives, I will not dwell,

But of himself, in person, I can tell:

At home, at market, fair, or any place,

He never shut his door against man’s face.

How grand to me—to write as you were able;

And grand to see you dance upon a table;

About the language—little need I say