The G.O.M. at Hawarden said, sniffling through his nose,
“When I was Master of the Mint we made no coins like those.”
Darjew.
The Weekly Dispatch. October 2, 1887.
Sing a song of sixpence, a packetful of news,
Just a dozen wordlets all that you must use.
When the packet’s open’d, the news begins to ring,
A birth, a death, a dainty dish of gossip doth it bring.
The husband’s in his counting-house losing all his money,