Classic Poem

W HEN I was young, I lov'd the Misses,
And made them presents for their kisses:
But now my ruin is — a Mother;
And who can boast of such another?
I pelt her with my gifts, — in vain —
Sure (at the best) of her disdain;
By her moralities am cross'd,
And whipp'd for that offence — the cost .
Yet, were such gifts each day repeated,
This Angel-Mother would be cheated:
Her gifts to me, at every hour,
For drops like these return a shower .