One can’t hold him, like a baby, in one’s arms the whole night through.
For peace and police each half-year a rate I pay;
But, alas! I find them pass only once or twice a day;
And ’tis night when thieves delight to steal a march, they say.
Punch 1856.
Oh, Where, and oh, Where, does your Own True Lover Stray?
Oh, where, and oh, where does my own true lover stray?
He’s gone upon his travels, oh, he’s gone to Botany-Bay;
And its oh, in my heart I hope he will not stay.