Cross Patch, cross Patch,
What's the matter now?
Why that wail of fretfulness,
And a scowl upon your brow?
Milk upset and wasted!
Water in your plate,
No one's sorry, old cross Patch,
For your wretched fate.
You began the morning
With a frown, my lad
And every word that you have said
Has made your mother sad.
And by your pettish temper,
You've spoiled your breakfast, too.
Cross Patch, cross Patch,
No one pities you.