I could not see my table-spoons—I look’d, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern’d ones I use when I’m at tea;—
I could not see my sugar-tongs—my silver watch—oh dear!
I know ’twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.
I could not see my Macintosh—it was not to be seen!—
Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad brimm’d and lined with green;
My carpet-bag—my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,—
My roast potatoes! all are gone!—and so’s that vulgar Boy!
I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,
“Oh, Mrs. Jones, what do you think?—ain’t this a pretty go?—