 | Prismatics |  |
A SONNET.
A FIRST AND LAST ATTEMPT AT THIS SPECIES OF COMPOSITION.
A SONNET? Well, if it's within my ken,
I'll write one with a moral! When a boy,
One Christmas day, I went to buy a toy,
Or rather, “we,” I and my brother Ben;
And, as it chanced that day, I had but ten
Cents in my fist, but as we walked—“Be Goy
Blamed! if we didn't meet one Pat McCoy,
An Irishman—one of my father's men,
Who four more gave, which made fourteen together.
Just then I spied, in most unlucky minute,
A pretty pocket wallet: like a feather
My money buys it! Ben, begins to grin it:—
“You're smart,” says he, “you've got a heap of leather,
But where's the cents you ought to ha' put in it?”
I'll write one with a moral! When a boy,
One Christmas day, I went to buy a toy,
Or rather, “we,” I and my brother Ben;
And, as it chanced that day, I had but ten
Cents in my fist, but as we walked—“Be Goy
Blamed! if we didn't meet one Pat McCoy,
An Irishman—one of my father's men,
Who four more gave, which made fourteen together.
Just then I spied, in most unlucky minute,
A pretty pocket wallet: like a feather
My money buys it! Ben, begins to grin it:—
“You're smart,” says he, “you've got a heap of leather,
But where's the cents you ought to ha' put in it?”
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