Y, there they sit! a merry rout

As village green can show,

That were such woful little wights

A summer hour ago.

Such woful weary little wights!

And precious hungry too—

And now they look like sausages

All smiling in a row.

For they have fed on dainty fare

This blazing August day,

And ate—as only people eat

When other people pay!

A pyramid of roasted ox

Has vanish'd like a shot;

Plum puddings, brobdiguag, have gone

The second time, to pot;

Devoted fowls have come to grief,

With persecuted geese;

And ducks (it is a wicked world!)

Departed life in peas.

My Lord and Lady Bountiful

Have done the civil thing,—

The lady patrons of "the turf"

Have waited in the "ring;"

The Grand Comptroller of the cake

Can hardly hold the knife;

The milk-and-water Ganymede

Is weary of his life;

Yet still the conflict rages round!

But now there comes a lull—

The edge of youthful appetite

Is waxing somewhat dull—

And fat Fenetta bobs, and says,

"No, thank ye, mam,—I'm 'ful'!"

Alone amid the festive throng

One tiny brow is sad!

One cherub face is wet with grief—

What ails you little lad?

Why still with scarifying sleeve

That tearful visage rub?

Ah! much I fear, my gentle boy,

You don't enjoy your grub!

You're altogether off your feed,

Your laughing looks have fled,—

Perhaps some little faithful friend

Has punch'd your little head?

You miss some well remembered face

The merry rout among?

The lips that blest, the arms that prest,

The neck to which you clung?

A brothers voice? a sister's smile?

Perhaps—you've burnt your tongue?

Here, on a sympathetic breast,

Your tale of suff'ring pour.

Come, darling! tell me all——"Boo-hoo;—

"I can't eat any more!"