We fall like the drops of April show'rs,
Cradled in mud, or cradled in flow'rs,
Now idly to wile the rosy hours,
And now for bread to importune;
Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap,
One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap—
And one, a "more kicks than ha'pence" chap,
For a slap—without the fortune!
* * * *
Yet, laugh if we will at those baby days,