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As she carried about the babe to buss,
She seemed to be nothing but bustle.

A wealthy Nabob was God-papa,
And an Indian Begum was God-mamma,
Whose jewels a Queen might covet—
And the Priest was a Vicar, and Dean withal
Of that Temple we see with a Golden Ball,
And a Golden Cross above it.

The Font was a bowl of American Gold,
Won by Raleigh in days of old,

In spite of Spanish bravado;

And the Book of Prayer was so overrun
With gilt devices, it shone in the sun
Like a copy a presentation one-
Of Humboldt's "El Dorado."

Gold! and gold! and nothing but gold!
The same auriferous shrine behold
Wherever the eye could settle!

On the walls-the sideboard-the ceiling-sky-
On the gorgeous footmen standing by,
In coats to delight a miner's eye

With seams of the precious metal.

Gold! and gold! and besides the gold,
The very robe of the infant told
A tale of wealth in every fold,

It lapp'd her like a vapor!

So fine! so thin! the mind at a loss

Could compare it to nothing except a cross
Of cobweb with bank-note paper.

Then her pearls-'twas a perfect sight, forsooth,
To see them, like "the dew of her youth,"
In such a plentiful sprinkle.

Meanwhile, the Vicar read through the form,
And

gave her another, not over-warm,
That made her little eyes twinkle.

Then the babe was cross'd and bless'd amain;
But instead of the Kate, or Ann, or Jane,

Which the humbler female endorses---
Instead of one name, as some people prefix,
Kilmansegg went at the tails of six,

Like a carriage of state with its horses

Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs!
The golden mugs and the golden jugs
That lent fresh rays to the midges!
The golden knives, and the golden spoons,
The gems that sparkled like fairy boons,
It was one of the Kilmansegg's own saloons,
But looked like Rundell and Bridge's!

Gold! and gold! the new and the old!
The company ate and drank from gold,

They revell'd, they sang, and were merry,
And one of the Gold Sticks rose from his chair,
And toasted "the Lass with the golden hair,"
In a bumper of golden Sherry.

Gold! still gold! it rain'd on the nurse,
Who, unlike Danäe, was none the worse;
There was nothing but guineas glistening!
Fifty were given to Doctor James,
For calling the little Baby names,
And for saying, Amen!

The Clerk had ten,

And that was the end of the Christening.

HER CHILDHOOD.

Our youth! our childhood! that spring of springs? 'Tis surely one of the blessedest things

That nature ever invented!

When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth,
And the poor are rich in spirits and health,

And all with their lots contented!

There's little Phelim, he sings like a thrush,
In the selfsame pair of patchwork plush,
With the selfsame empty pockets,
That tempted his daddy so often to cut
His throat, or jump in the water-butt-
But what cares Phelim ? an empty nut
Would sooner bring tears to their sockets.

Give him a collar without a skirt,
That's the Irish linen for shirt,

And a slice of bread, with a taste of dirt,
That's Poverty's Irish butter,

And what does he lack to make him blest?
Some oyster-shells, or a sparrow's nest,
A candle-end and a gutter.

But to leave the happy Phelim alone,
Gnawing, perchance, a marrowless bone,
For which no dog would quarrel-
Turn we to little Miss Kilmansegg,
Cutting her first little toothy-peg
With a fifty guinea coral—

A peg upon which

About poor and rich

Reflection might hang a moral.

Born in wealth, and wealthily nursed,
Capp'd, papp'd, napp'd and lapp'd from the first
On the knees of Prodigality,

Her childhood was one eternal round
Of the game of going on Tickler's ground
Picking up gold-in reality.

With extempore carts she never play'd,
Or the odds and ends of a Tinker's trade,
Or little dirt pies and puddings made,
Like children happy and squalid;

The very puppet she had to pet,
Like a bait for the "Nix my Dolly" set,
Was a Dolly of gold-and solid !

Gold! and gold! 'twas the burden still!
To gain the Heiress's early goodwill
There was much corruption and bribery-
The yearly cost of her golden toys
Would have given to half London's Charity Boys
And Charity Girls the annual joys
Of a holiday dinner at Highbury.

Bon-bons she ate from the gilt cornet;
And gilded queens on St. Bartlemy's day;
Till her fancy was tinged by her presents-
And first a goldfinch excited her wish,
Then a spherical bowl with a Golden fish,
And then two Golden Pheasants.

Nay, once she squall'd and scream'd like wild-
And it shows how the bias we give to a child
Is a thing most weighty and solemn :—
But whence was wonder or blame to spring
If little Miss K.,-after such a swing-
Made a dust for the flaming gilded thing
On the top of the Fish Street column?

HER EDUCATION.

According to metaphysical creed,

To the earliest books that children read

For much good or much bad they are debtors—

But before with their A B C they start,

There are things in morals, as well as art,

That play a very important part

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'Impressions before the letters."

Dame Education begins the pile,

Mayhap in the graceful Corinthian style,
But alas for the elevation !

If the Lady's maid or gossip the Nurse
With a load of rubbish, or something worse,
Have made a rotten foundation.

Even thus with Little Miss Kilmansegg,
Before she learnt her E for egg,

Ere her Governess came, or her Masters-
Teachers of quite a different kind

Had "cramm'd" her beforehand, and put her mind In a go-cart on golden castors.

Long before her A B and C,

They had taught her by heart her L. S. D.,

And as how she was born a great Heiress;

And as sure as London was built of bricks,
My Lord would ask her the day to fix,
To ride in her fine gilt coach and six,

Like her Worship the Lady May'ress.
Instead of stories from Edgeworth's page,
The true golden lore for our golden age,

Or lessons from Barbauld and Trimmer, Teaching the worth of Virtue and Health, All that she knew was the Virtue of Wealth, Provided by vulgar nursery stealth,

With a Book of Leaf Gold for a Primer.

The very metal of merit they told,

And praised her for being as "good as gold!"
Till she grew as a peacock haughty :
Of money they talk'd the whole day round,
And weigh'd desert like grapes by the pound,
Till she had an idea from the very sound
That people with naught were naughty.

They praised-poor children with nothing at all!
Lord! how you twaddle and waddle and squall
Like common-bred geese and ganders!
What sad little bad little figures you make
To the rich Miss K., whose plainest seed-cake
Was stuff'd with corianders!

They praised her falls, as well as her walk,
Flatterers make cream cheese of chalk,

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