"There was an old woman Who lived in a shoe; She had so many children She did n't know what to do: To some she gave broth, And to some she gave bread, And some she whipped soundly, And sent them to bed." Do you find out the likeness? A portly old Dame,— The mother of millions,— Britannia by name: And—howe'er it may strike you In reading the song— Not stinted in space For bestowing the throng; Since the Sun can himself Hardly manage to go, In a day and a night, From the heel to the toe. On the arch of the instep She builds up her throne, And, with seas rolling under, She sits there alone; With her heel at the foot Of the Himmalehs planted, And her toe in the icebergs, Unchilled and undaunted. Yet though justly of all Her fine family proud, 'Tis no light undertaking To rule such a crowd; Not to mention the trouble Of seeing them fed, And dispensing with justice The broth and the bread. Some will seize upon one,— Some are left with the other, And so the whole household Gets into a pother. But the rigid old Dame Has a summary way Of her own, when she finds There is mischief to pay. She just takes up the rod, As she lays down the spoon, And makes their rebellious backs Tingle right soon: Then she bids them, while yet The sore smarting they feel, To lie down, and go to sleep, Under her heel! Only once was she posed,— When the little boy Sam, Who had always before Been as meek as a lamb, Refused to take tea, As his mother had bid, And returned saucy answers Because he was chid. Not content even then, He cut loose from the throne, And set about making A shoe of his own; Which succeeded so well, And was filled up so fast, That the world, in amazement, Confessed, at the last,— Looking on at the work With a gasp and a stare,— That't was hard to tell which Would be best of the pair. Side by side they are standing Together to-day; Side by side may they keep Their strong foothold for aye: And beneath the broad sea, Whose blue depths intervene, May the finishing string Lie unbroken between!
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