A Poor Excuse, But Our Own

(Why don't you ever write any child poetry? -A MOTHER.) My right-hand neighbour hath a child, A pretty child of five or six, Not more than other children wild, Nor fuller than the rest of tricks- At five he rises, shine or rain, And noisily plays 'fire' or 'train.' Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight, He hath. Each morning, as a rule, Proudly my neighbour will relate How bright Mathilda is at school. My ardour, less than half of mild, Bids me to comment, 'Wondrous child!' All through the vernal afternoon My other neighbour's children skate A wild Bacchantic rigadoon On rollers; nor does it abate Till dark; and then his babies cry What time I fain would versify. Did I but set myself to sing A children's song, I'd stand revealed A bard that did the infant thing As well as Riley or 'Gene Field. I could write famous Children Stuff, If they'd keep quiet long enough.