You said Master Twigg stole the plums,
When the orchard he never was near at,
I’ll not punish wrong fingers or thumbs,—
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
You make Master Taylor your butt,
And this morning his face you threw beer at,
And you struck him—do you like a cut?
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
Little Biddle you likewise distress,
You are always his hair, or his ear at,—
He’s my Opt, Sir, and you are my Pess:
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
Then you had a pitcht fight with young Rous,
An offence I am always severe at!
You discredit to Cicero-House!
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
You have made too a plot in the night,
To run off from the school that you rear at!
Come, your other hand, now, Sir,—the right,
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
I’ll teach you to draw, you young dog!
Such pictures as I’m looking here at!
“Old Mounseer making soup of a frog,”
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
You have run up a bill at a shop,
That in paying you’ll be a whole year at,—
You’ve but twopence a week, Sir, to stop!
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
Then at dinner you’re quite cock-a-hoop,
And the soup you are certain to sneer at—
I have sipped it—it’s very good soup,—
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
T’other day when I fell o’er the form,
Was my tumble a thing, Sir, to cheer at?
Well for you that my temper’s not warm,—
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”
Why, you rascal! you insolent brat!
All my talking you don’t shed a tear at,
There—take that, Sir! and that! that! and that!
There!—“Palmam qui meruit ferat!”