Did’st never in plain truth,
Plant whizzing Flowers in thy mother’s pots,
Turning the garden into powder plots?
Or give the cook, to fright her,
Thy paper sausages well stuffed with nitre?
Nay, wert thou never guilty, now, of dropping
A lighted cracker by thy sister’s Dear,
So that she could not hear
The question he was popping?
Go on, Madame! Go on—be bright and busy