Classic Poem

A PASTORAL STORY AFTER WORDSWORTH

I marvell'd why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,
I ask'd her why she cried;
The damsel answered with a groan,
" I've got a pain inside!

" I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven. "
Said I, " What is it makes you bad? "
How many apples have you had? "
She answered, " Only seven! "

" And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid? " quoth I;
" Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie! "

" If that's the case, " I stammer'd out,
" Of course you've had eleven. "
The maiden answer'd with a pout,
" I ain't had more nor seven! "

I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, " I'm bad at riddles;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.

" Now, if you won't reform, " said I,
" You'll never go to Heaven. "
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
" I ain't had more nor seven! "

POSTSCRIPT

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I'd better call my song,
" Lines after Ache-Inside. "