Inevitable Retribution

“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.