He shut one eye and aimed with care, then let the ball fly free.
Twice, thrice, nay, thirty times he flung, his BETSY standing by,
And scornfully advising him to close his other eye.
Yet, when at last he had to own he could not do the trick,
No solitary cocoa-nut had toppled from its stick.
Papa is in his glory here, that proud and happy man,
But in spite of all his efforts, he can't get coloured tan.
Yet every week-day morning, from ten o'clock till one,
He turns that British face of his unflinching to the sun.
Mamma she sits beside him; I overheard her say,