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“It is a Shame,” said Albert Gore,
“That I my Top may spin no more,
But to my Book must go;
Whilst James, although the Clock strikes Three,
Still plies his Marbles busily
With Uncle’s Gardener, Joe.”
“Nay, quit your Sport, your Hand refrain,”
Cried the Preceptor once again;
But, oh! to tell I grieve
That Albert, when he turn’d his Face,
Made so repellent a Grimace
That you would scarce believe.
And ah! the Wind, at Heav’n’s behest
Changed from the East into the West,
Alas! for Albert Gore,
His Countenance, his glaring Eye,
His Nose outspread, his Mouth awry
Were set to turn no more.
Oh! what a Warning this should be
For every little Child to see,
For all from Albert run.
The Author of his own Disgrace,
He weeps to think how wry a Face
He’ll wear till Life is done.