Thou human humming-bee, extracting hone
From ev’ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth’s Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!—that’s his precious nose!)
Thy father’s pride and hope!
(He’ll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
ARTHUR’S SEAT.
A TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SON.
With pure heart newly stamp’d from Nature’s mint—
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He’ll have that jug off, with another shove!)
Dear nurseling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He’ll climb upon the table, that’s his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life—
(He’s got a knife!)