And
WILLIAM is _most_ disagreeable and unpleasant about it!
* * * * *
NOTES FROM A NURSERY-GARDEN.
(_BY AN AWFULLY CLEVER CHILD_.)
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I am a Poetess. I am told that the Age is old, and
that Poetry is over. _My_ age is ten, and my poetry is certainly not
over. My nurse (one of those horrid critics) has ventured to suggest
that I am not original. I leave you to judge. Yours impatiently,
ENFANT TERRIBLE.
N.W.
Alack! up Northern Primrose Hill
(_Sing, oh, JACK! sing, ah, GILL!_)
They climbed, and deemed it Helicon,
Those childish bards, GILLETTE and JOHN,
Their pails with Hippocrene to fill.
(_Sing, oh, JACK! sing, ah, GILL!_)
Adown that Western Hill, alack!
(_Sing, ah, GILL! sing, oh, JACK!_)
Or e'er they gained the Muses' well,
JACK kicked his bucket frail and, fell.
And GILL was brought upon her back.
(_Sing, ah, GILL! sing, oh, JACK!_)
TO A SCENTY PEDE.
How doth yonder miniature featness,
Though wingless, with gossamer wit,
Foregather mellifluent sweetness,
While Fates unrelenting permit--
Wise heir of bright hours, completeness
Of blossoms that flicker and flit.
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