“Some are born with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some with a golden ladle.” GOLDSMITH.

“Some are born with tin rings in their noses, and with silver ones.” SILVERSMITH.

Who ruined me ere I was born,

Sold every acre, grass or corn,

And left the next heir all forlorn?

My Grandfather.

Who said my mother was no nurse.

And physicked me and made me worse,

Till infancy became a curse?

My Grandmother.

Who left me in my seventh year,

A comfort to my mother dear,

And Mr. Pope, the overseer?

My Father.

Who let me starve, to buy her gin,

Till all my bones came through my skin,

Then called me “ugly little sin?”

My Mother.

Who said my mother was a Turk,

And took me home — and made me work,

But managed half my meals to shirk?

My Aunt.

Who “of all earthly things” would boast,

“He hated others’ brats the most,”

And therefore made me feel my post?

My Uncle.

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