What is there to so astound them?
She cries 'Oh!' for he cries 'Hah!'
When five brats emerge, confound them!
Shouting out, 'Mamma!—Papa!'
While at this he wonders blindly,
Nor their meaning can divine,
Proud she turns them round, and kindly,
'All of these are mine and thine!'
* * * * *
Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic,