That currant jam!—I'd almost swear
I'd half-a-dozen pots of red.
Oh, your sweet child! On him I smiled
Benignly; but it seemed to me
That he had smears across his face
Which I was hardly pleased to see.
Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square,
You've used up all my choice Pekoe;
My sherry's gone; and where, oh where
Is that half-flask of curaçoa?