 | Knitting-work |  |
WEANING THE BABY.
There 's trouble in the house, and Bub in arms
Protests, with stentor lungs and brimming eyes,
Against this greatest of his earthly harms,
The order cutting off his small supplies.
With stormy brow — a tempest in a bowl —
He bellows with a most determined might,
Disclosing fierceness in his infant soul,
That in the Infantry may some day fight.
We speak of sorrows — what are they to Bub's,
And the maternal's, half disposed to yield?
'T is hard to find, amidst earth's minor rubs,
A trouble near so sad as is revealed
Where the accustomed lacteal rations stop,
And infant lungs, like Divés, bellow for a drop.
Protests, with stentor lungs and brimming eyes,
Against this greatest of his earthly harms,
The order cutting off his small supplies.
With stormy brow — a tempest in a bowl —
He bellows with a most determined might,
Disclosing fierceness in his infant soul,
That in the Infantry may some day fight.
We speak of sorrows — what are they to Bub's,
And the maternal's, half disposed to yield?
'T is hard to find, amidst earth's minor rubs,
A trouble near so sad as is revealed
Where the accustomed lacteal rations stop,
And infant lungs, like Divés, bellow for a drop.
| Knitting-work | |