' Eh! bless them boys, they'll drive me mad As sure as eggs are eggs; I'd like to catch that saucy lad, And have him 'tween my legs; Or get him flat upon my lap ; I'd let him feel my thickest strap ! Them boys once put the clock hands back, So I ne'er rang the bell; That pretty nigh got me the sack Because I wouldn't tell. Then they subscribed me fifteen bob— As if that paid me for the job. Then, my! I never saw such dirt As they get on their boots; It ain't but truthful to assert 'Tis deep enough for roots. It pretty near takes half my day To scrape the worst of it away. The rascals! they're so knowing, too, They run away and laugh, When I could whack 'em black and blue With worrit at their chaff. They know exact how much I mean— By next time I've forgot it clean. Then they come trooping to my den— A pretty crew they are— To hear about the Alma, when We licked the Russian Czar. Ah, well! boys will be boys they say : I miss 'em when they go away.
His Bad Christmas Luck.
