My dear little Blossoms, there are now in this world, and always will
be, a great many grannies besides myself, both in petticoats and
pantaloons, some a deal younger to be sure; but all monstrous wise, and
of my own family name. These old women, who never had chick nor child of
their own, but who always know how to bring up other people's children,
will tell you with very long faces, that my enchanting, quieting,
soothing volume, my all-sufficient anodyne for cross, peevish,
won't-be-comforted little bairns, ought to be laid aside for more
learned books, such as _they_ could select and publish. Fudge! I tell
you that all their batterings can't deface my beauties, nor their wise
pratings equal my wiser prattlings; and all imitators of my refreshing
songs might as well write a new Billy Shakespeare as another Mother
Goose--we two great poets were born together, and we shall go out of the
world together.
No, no, my Melodies will never die,
While nurses sing, or babies cry.
[_Copyright secured._]