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WHO ARE YOU?
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

WHO ARE YOU?

[_]

“There are very impudent people in London,” said a country cousin of mine in 1837. “As I walked down the Strand, a fellow stared at me and shouted, ‘Who are you?’ Five minutes after another passing me, cried, ‘Flare up’—but a civil gentleman, close to his heels loudly asked ‘How is your mother?’”

[This mere trifle is almost unintelligible now, but, when first published, was so effective and popular, as illustrating genteely the slang cries of the street, that it was honored by French and Italian versions from the sparkling pen of the renowned “Father Prout,” in Bentley's Miscellany.]

Who are you? who are you?
Little boy that's running after
Every one, up and down,
Mingling sighing with your laughter?”
“I am Cupid, lady Belle;
I am Cupid, and no other.”
“Little boy, then prythee tell
How is Venus?—How's your mother?
Little boy, little boy,
I desire you tell me true,
Cupid—oh! you're altered so,
No wonder I cry, Who are you?

49

“Who are you? who are you?
Little boy, where is your bow?
You had a bow, my little boy—”
“So had you, Ma'am—long ago.”
“Little boy, where is your torch?”
“Madam, I have given it up:
Torches are no use at all
Hearts will never now flare up.”
“Naughty boy, naughty boy,
Such words as these I never knew;
Cupid oh! you're altered so,
No wonder I say, Who are you?