Their tails in the same PATTERN.
While Richard's son, with pipe of PAN,
His hands within his POCKETS,
Walks close beside the old plough-man,
Dreaming of squibs and rockets.
That youth, he greatly loves his ease,
He's growing much too fat,
And though as strong as HERCULES,
He'll only use his BAT.
He won't sweep up the autumn LEAVES,
The tree's deciduous ARMOUR,
No scolding Dickey's spirit grieves
Like working like a farmer,
Or labouring like his cousin GEORGE,
With arms all bare and brawny,
Within the blacksmith's glowing forge;
He would be in the ARMY.
But no, young Dick, you're not the man
Our realms to watch and ward,
For worse than a LEVIATHAN
You'd dread the foe's REAR-GUARD,
And in the storm of shot and SHELL,
You'd soon desert your pennant,
Care nought for serjeant, corporal,
Or general LIEUTENANT,
But prove yourself quite swift and nimble,
And thus would meet your END;
No, better take a tailor's THIMBLE
And learn your ways to mend.
'Capital, Helen!' said Elizabeth.
'How very pretty!' said Lucy.
'And very well described,' said Anne; 'you have brought in those ungainly words most satisfactorily.'
'Now, Helen, here is Anne's,' said Elizabeth; 'it is a choice one, and I have kept it for the last.'
'Let me read Anne's,' said Rupert; 'no one can decypher her writing as well as I can.'
'As was proved by the thorough acquaintance you shewed with the contents of her last letter,' said Elizabeth.
Rupert began as follows:
Now must I write in numbers flowing
Extemporaneously a POEM?
'Why, Rupert,' cried Anne, 'you must be reading Kate's. Mine began with--'
'I declare that I have yours in my hand, Anne,' said Rupert.
'And I did not write one,' said Katherine.
Now must I write in numbers flowing
Extemporaneously a POEM?
One that will fill your eyes with TEARS,
While I relate how our worst fears
Were realized in yonder ditch.
Conveyed there by some water-WITCH,
We found, sad sight for longing EYES!
Fido, much loved, though small in size.
Hard fate, but while our tears bemoan it,
Let us take up the corpse and BONE it,
