A SURE CURE.
Reading edition
Poor Bobby's sick! Dear little lad, He's got a pain; it hurts him awful bad. Just see his face! In every line of it a trace Of how he suffers from that pain. What's that? His plate is back again For buckwheat cakes? Oho, I see! 'Tis nearly nine o'clock. Ho!—hum!—tell me What is this woe That lays poor Bobby low Each morning just at school-time, yet so fleet is? Is it the olden time Nineoelockitis That as a boy I had so frequently? That comes at half past eight, and seems to last From then till nine, or say a quarter past, And then departs, and leaves him all the day With twice the strength with which to go and play? Oh—well—if this be so I'll worry not. The symptoms well I know. Only, instead of cakes to cure his ills, Take him a spoon and fill it up with squills, And by to-morrow I doubt he'll suffer from his present sorrow.