Sell it, tho it's sweetly sleeping
On its mother's breast;
Sell it; 't is not worth the keeping,
Such a little pest,

Born with wings and wicked wrinkles
And with nails that scratch,
Squalling now, but in two twinkles
It will giggle. Watch!

Bold as brass, all day a bother,
Babbling, noticing;
Savage — ask its darling mother,
Can she tame the thing?

It's a monster. Going! going!
Ho! who sails to-day,
Buy a baby healthy, growing,
Buy it and away!

No! it heard, and fond and tearful,
Begs for grace until
I have promist: " Be not fearful,
Bide with Zenophil. "