MY SON TOM.
I
My son's a youth of talents rare,
You really ought to know him;
But he blushes so, when people stare,
That he seldom lets me show him.
To school he never yet was sent,
Nor yet to Oxford College;
So all are in astonishment
Where Tom pick'd up his knowledge.
My Tom's a youth of talents rare,
You really ought to know him,
But he blushes so, when people stare,
That he seldom lets me show him.
II
But Tom's a minor, recollect,
But nineteen next November!
And so, of course, one can't expect
Big books he should remember;
With clever boys, if people force
Their minds, 'tis ruination;
So I let nature take her course,
A fig for education!
My Tom's a youth of talents rare, &c.
III
By instinct, Tom picks up at once
The things that others study.
My husband storms, and calls him dunce,
He should not do so, should he?
Some talk about the books they've read,
And each is thought a wise one,
Tom makes, all out of his own head,
Remarks that quite surprise one.
My Tom's a youth of talents rare, &c.
IV
Tom wears no stock, no long-tail'd coat,
Unfit for boys of his age.
A jacket and an open throat
Best suits his form and visage:
Hereafter when the fair, and gay,
My darling is pursuing,
I'm sure he will not fail to say,
“'Twas all my mother's doing!”
My Tom's a youth of talents rare, &c.
