“Who sat and watched my infant head When sleeping on my cradle-bed, And tears of sweet affection shed? My mother.
When sleep forsook my open eye, Who was it sang sweet lullaby, And rocked me that I should not cry? My mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry, Who gazed upon my heavy eye, And wept for fear that I should die? My mother.”
There, sir! what do you say to that?
Festus. It’s very sweet. But that child had too many mothers. Now, I prefer Tom Hood’s parody. (Reads “A Lay of Real Life” by Thomas Hood.)
A LAY OF REAL LIFE.
Who ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn, And left the next heir all forlorn? My Grandfather.
Who said my mother was no nurse, And physicked me, and made me worse, Till infancy became a curse? My Grandmother.
Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear, And Mr. Pope the overseer? My Father.
Who let me starve to buy her gin, Till all my bones came through my skin, Then called me “ugly little sin”? My Mother.