“’Tis now some thirty-seven years ago
Since first began the plot that I’m revealing,
A fine young woman, whom you ought to know,
Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing.
Herself by means of mangling reimbursing,
And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing.
“Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot:
One was her own—the other only lent to her:
_Her own she slighted_. Tempted by a lot
Of gold and silver regularly sent to her,
She ministered unto the little other
In the capacity of foster-mother.
“_I was her own_. Oh! how I lay and sobbed
In my poor cradle—deeply, deeply cursing
The rich man’s pampered bantling, who had robbed
My only birthright—an attentive nursing!
Sometimes in hatred of my foster-brother,
I gnashed my gums—which terrified my mother.
“One day—it was quite early in the week—
I _in_ MY _cradle having placed the bantling_—
Crept into his! He had not learnt to speak,
But I could see his face with anger mantling.
It was imprudent—well, disgraceful maybe,
For, oh! I was a bad, blackhearted baby!
“So great a luxury was food, I think
No wickedness but I was game to try for it.
_Now_ if I wanted anything to drink
At any time, I only had to cry for it!
_Once_, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking,
My blubbering involved a serious smacking!
“We grew up in the usual way—my friend,
My foster-brother, daily growing thinner,
While gradually I began to mend,
And thrived amazingly on double dinner.
And every one, besides my foster-mother,
Believed that either of us was the other.
“I came into _his_ wealth—I bore _his_ name,
I bear it still—_his_ property I squandered—
I mortgaged everything—and now (oh, shame!)
Into a Somers Town shake-down I’ve wandered!
I am no PALEY—no, VOLLAIRE—it’s true, my boy!
The only rightful PALEY V. is _you_, my boy!
“And all I have is yours—and yours is mine.
I still may place you in your true position:
Give me the pounds you’ve saved, and I’ll resign
My noble name, my rank, and my condition.
So far my wickedness in falsely owning
Your vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!”
* * * * * * *
FREDERICK he was a simple soul,
He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll,
And gave to PALEY his hard-earned store,
A hundred and seventy pounds or more.
PALEY VOLLAIRE, with many a groan,
Gave FREDERICK all that he called his own,—
Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean,
A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane.
And FRED (entitled to all things there)
He took the fever from MR. VOLLAIRE,
Which killed poor FREDERICK WEST. Meanwhile
VOLLAIRE sailed off to Madeira’s isle.