Though short thou art in stature, Sarah dear,
Thou shalt not be looked over by the world;—
Nor though an antique bonnet thou dost wear
Over, perchance, a wig, where hair once curled!
Thy Lightfoot is beneath the grassy mound,
And thou wilt see thy Heavisides no more,—
Loaded with lead, thy feet, by age, are found,
And thy sides lean to what they were before:—
Child of a Gunn! (that went off long ago)—
Lightfoot's and Heaviside's surviving half!!
Relief of Toddles!!! all thy friends well know
Thy worth, and say, without intent to chaff,
"Sarah will be, and is (though suitors crave)
"A widow still,—and Toddles to the grave!"
V.D.L.