It shall not be “Albert” nor “Arthur,”
Though both are respectable men,
His name shall be that of his father,
My Benjamin shorten’ d to “Ben.”
Yes, much as I wish for a corner
In each of my relative’ s wills,
I will not be reckon’ d a fawner —
That creaking of boots must be Squills.
It is clear, though his means may be narrow,
This infant his age will adorn;
I shall send him to Oxford from Harrow —
I wonder how soon he’ ll be born.
A spouse thus was airing his fancies
Below —’ twas a labour of love —
And calmly reflecting on Nancy’ s
More practical labour above.
Yet while it so pleas’ d him to ponder,
Elated, at ease, and alone,
That pale, patient victim up yonder
Had budding delights of her own;
Sweet thoughts in their essence diviner
Than dreams of ambition and pelf;
A cherub, no babe will be finer,
Invented and nursed by herself!
One breakfasting, dining, and teaing,
With appetite nought can appease,
And quite a young Reasoning Being
When called on to yawn and to sneeze.
What cares that heart, trusting and tender,
For fame or avuncular wills;
Except for the name and the gender,
She is almost as tranquil as Squills.
That father, in reverie centr’ d,
Dumfoundered, his brain in a whirl,
Heard Squills — as the creaking boots enter’ d,—
Announce that his Boy was — a GIRL.