WORDSWORTH.

It shall not be “Albert” nor “Arthur,”

Though both are respectable men,

His name shall be that of his father,

My Benjamin shorten’ d to “Ben.”

Yes, much as I wish for a corner

In each of my relative’ s wills,

I will not be reckon’ d a fawner —

That creaking of boots must be Squills.

It is clear, though his means may be narrow,

This infant his age will adorn;

I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow —

I wonder how soon he’ ll be born.

A spouse thus was airing his fancies

Below —’ twas a labour of love —

And calmly reflecting on Nancy’ s

More practical labour above.

Yet while it so pleas’ d him to ponder,

Elated, at ease, and alone,

That pale, patient victim up yonder

Had budding delights of her own;

Sweet thoughts in their essence diviner

Than dreams of ambition and pelf;

A cherub, no babe will be finer,

Invented and nursed by herself!

One breakfasting, dining, and teaing,

With appetite nought can appease,

And quite a young Reasoning Being

When called on to yawn and to sneeze.

What cares that heart, trusting and tender,

For fame or avuncular wills;

Except for the name and the gender,

She is almost as tranquil as Squills.

That father, in reverie centr’ d,

Dumfoundered, his brain in a whirl,

Heard Squills — as the creaking boots enter’ d,—

Announce that his Boy was — a GIRL.