'Tis a strange thing, but 'tis a thing well known,
You seven children have, and yet have none:
No genuine offspring, but a mongrel rabble,
Sprung from the garret, hovel, barn and stable.
They every one proclaim their mother's shame:
Look in their face, you read their father's name.
This swarthy, flat-nos'd, Shock is Africk's boast;
His grandsire dwells upon the Golden coast.
The second is the squinting butler's lad;
And the third lump dropp'd from the gard'ner's spade.
As like the carter this, as he can stare:
That has the footman's pert and forward air.
Two girls with raven and with carrot pate;
This the postillion's is, the coachman's that.
The steward and the groom old hurts disable,
Or else two branches more had grac'd your table.