Many an evening did I see her where the willow sprouts grew thick,
And I rushed away from Granny at the touching of her stick.
O my Granny, old and ugly, O my Granny's hateful deeds,
O the empty, empty garret, O the garden gone to weeds,
Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have sung,
I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue,
Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline
On a boy with lower shoulders, and a narrower back than mine?
Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinner-horn,
They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn;