With guilty, conscience-stricken tears,I offer up these rhymes of mineTo children of maturer yearsFrom Seventeen to Ninety-nine.A special solace may they beIn days of second infancy. The frenzied mother who observesThis volume in her offspring's hand,And trembles for the darling's nerves,Must please to clearly understand,If baby suffers by and byThe Publisher's at fault, not I!Pg xBut should the little brat survive,And fatten on this style of Rhyme,To raise a Heartless Home and thriveThrough a successful life of crime,The Publisher would have you seeThat I am to be thanked, not he! Fond parent, you whose children areOf tender age from two to eight,Pray keep this little volume farFrom reach of such, and relegateMy verses to an upper shelf;Where you may study them yourself.
