"Upwards of twenty years ago,
Or more or less it may be so,
Some one had ventur'd to expose
In clean and decent swaddling clothes,
An Infant, laid before the door
Mark'd number three in number four,
Of Chambers which distinction claim,
And Paper Buildings is their name:, |
Now any one who can but give
Assurance that He still doth live,
The above reward will then receive. | } |
Quæ Genus is the Foundling's name,
Which, if alive, he best can claim,
For now at least it is not known
That he can any other own. |
The kind Protector of his Birth
Was a Divine of highest worth—
Who held preferment in the North— | } |
Syntax was his much-honour'd name,
Nor is he now unknown to Fame.
But time has long since laid his head
On his last low and silent bed;
And search has hitherto been vain,
The Foundling's present state to gain.
A Laundress now is still alive
Who can some information give,
And Betty Broom is the known name
Of the communicating Dame
To whose kind care deliver'd first,
The Babe was given to be nurs'd.
Th' exposure she can well display
As if it were but yesterday,
But further knowledge is requir'd
And what events may have conspir'd
To shape his Life—If he should live,
'Tis what this paper asks to give.
Who has such tidings and will tell 'em,
With all due proofs, to Mr. Vellum,
Or sent by Post to his abode,
Near Shoreditch Church in Hackney Road,
Will the remuneration prove
That's fully stated as above." |
| |
Again he read the paper o'er,
Resolv'd its purport to explore,
And strait to Number Three repairs
When hobbling down the ancient stairs,
He met the Matron whom he sought,
And told his story as he ought,
A rapid sketch—nor did it fail
To be an interesting Tale:
Which when she heard, against the wall
The broom she held was seen to fall,
And scarce her old arms could prevail
To bear the burthen of her pail.
Her glasses then she sought to place
On the Proboscis of her face;
Not that a likeness she should see
'Tween riper years and infancy.
But now her heart began to melt
At Recollections that she felt,
And thus she wish'd to tell them o'er,
As she had often done before.
"What, though so many years are gone,
And you to man's estate are grown,
Since I, in all its infant charms,
Dandled the Foundling in my arms,
Were I but certain it was you,
Yes I would hug—and kiss you too."
—But though he vow'd and did exclaim
He was the very—very same; |
And though he put forth ev'ry grace
With which his words could gild his face,
He could not gain a kind embrace; | } |
Though twenty-five don't often sue
To claim a kiss from sixty-two:
But some suspicions had possess'd
The avenues to Betty's breast;
For she liv'd where her open ear
Was practis'd ev'ry day to hear
Of art array'd in fairest guise
And truth o'erthrown by artifice.
Thus what could the old Matron do?
She fear'd him false, and wish'd him true:
Then turn'd him round, but look'd aghast,
As at his back her eye she cast;
When she thus spoke, and heav'd a sigh,
"I hope it is not treachery!
Before that door the child lay sprawling,
And mov'd the Doctor with its squalling:
But, before Heaven I can swear,
It then was as a Cherub fair;
Strait as a little arrow he,
In perfect form and symmetry;
And from its neck unto its rump,
Believe me, he had no such hump
As that, though hid with every care,
Your injur'd form is seen to bear;
And cannot but appear to be
A natural deformity.
How this change came of course you know,—
With the poor child it was not so;—
Prepare its Hist'ry to explain,
Or you will visit here in vain.
—My good young man, strive not to cheat,
Nor think to profit by deceit:
You have with knowing folk to do,
Not to be foil'd by such as you.
I own you tell a moving tale,
But Facts alone will now prevail:
You will be sifted up and down
Till e'en your marrow-bones are known.
—I've not another word to say;
To Master Vellum take your way,
You'll find him at his snug abode
Near Shoreditch Church, in Hackney Road:
For, when the infant first was left,
Of all parental care bereft,
The Bookseller and I, between us,
Had much to do with dear Quæ Genus:
For to his shop I us'd to go
'Twas then in Paternoster Row,
As he the money did supply
For the poor Foundling's nursery. |
—O, if he finds your story true,
It will, indeed, be well for you!
I will then hug and kiss you too!" | } |
He took his leave—she gave a blessing
As good, perhaps, as her caressing. |