Why now, my dear boys, this is always the way,
You can't be contented with innocent play;
But this sort of romping, so noisy and high,
Is never left off till it ends in a cry.
What! are there no games you can take a delight in,
But kicking and knocking, and tearing, and fighting?
It is a sad thing to be forced to conclude
That boys can't be merry, without being rude.
Now what is the reason you never can play
Without snatching each other's playthings away?
Would it be any hardship to let them alone,
When every one of you has toys of his own?
I often have told you before, my dear boys,
That I do not object to your making a noise;
Or running and jumping about, anyhow,
But fighting and mischief I cannot allow.
So, if any more of these quarrels are heard,
I tell you this once, and I'll keep to my word,
I'll take every marble, and spintop and ball,
And not let you play with each other at all.