Lines to be Spoken by Thomas Denman, on the Christmas Before His Birthday, When He Was Four Years Old
Nay, nay, I'll not be held, let me come by,
The boys all spout, so pray why should not I?
I won't be called a baby any more,
Next February I'm completely four. — —
And now what pretty story shall I tell,
Among the boys to bear away the belle.
Of Cinderella, or of Robin Hood,
Or the poor babes that wander'd in the wood.
Poor babes, their lips with blackberries were dyed,
And when night came they sat them down and cried.
I'll shew you how St. George attacked the dragon,
There was a wonderful exploit to brag on!
What are your Rodneys and your Howes to him,
Or tall De Grasse against an ogre grim?
With seven league boots upon his giant legs,
Who swallows little children like poached eggs,
And fiercely stares — But soft, I would not fright ye,
So Ladies for this time I bid good night to ye.
Smile on me now, and in another year
I'll strut and fret my part with any here.
The boys all spout, so pray why should not I?
I won't be called a baby any more,
Next February I'm completely four. — —
And now what pretty story shall I tell,
Among the boys to bear away the belle.
Of Cinderella, or of Robin Hood,
Or the poor babes that wander'd in the wood.
Poor babes, their lips with blackberries were dyed,
And when night came they sat them down and cried.
I'll shew you how St. George attacked the dragon,
There was a wonderful exploit to brag on!
What are your Rodneys and your Howes to him,
Or tall De Grasse against an ogre grim?
With seven league boots upon his giant legs,
Who swallows little children like poached eggs,
And fiercely stares — But soft, I would not fright ye,
So Ladies for this time I bid good night to ye.
Smile on me now, and in another year
I'll strut and fret my part with any here.
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