And while you're running all ducked and drown'd, and pelted with sixpenny drops,
"Fine weather," you hear the farmers say; "a nice growing show'r for the crops!"
But who's to crop me another new hat, or grow me another new gown?
For you can't take a shilling fare with a plough as you do with the hackneys in town.
Then my nevys too, they must drag me off to go with them gathering nuts,
And we always set out by the longest way and return by the shortest cuts.
Short cuts, indeed! But it's nuts to them, to get a poor lustyish aunt
To scramble through gaps or jump over a ditch, when they're morally certain she can't,—
For whenever I get in some awkward scrape, and it's almost daily the case,
Tho' they don't laugh out, the mischievous brats, I see the hooray! in their face.