The Terrible Tale.

“’Tis now some thirty-seven years ago Since first began the plot that I’m revealing, A fine young woman, whom you ought to know, Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing. Herself by means of mangling reimbursing, And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing. “Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot: One was her own—the other only lent to her: Her own she slighted. Tempted by a lot Of gold and silver regularly sent to her, She ministered unto the little other In the capacity of foster-mother. “I was her own. Oh! how I lay and sobbed In my poor cradle—deeply, deeply cursing The rich man’s pampered bantling, who had robbed My only birthright—an attentive nursing! Sometimes in hatred of my foster-brother, I gnashed my gums—which terrified my mother. “One day—it was quite early in the week— I in MY cradle having placed the bantling— Crept into his! He had not learnt to speak, But I could see his face with anger mantling. It was imprudent—well, disgraceful maybe, For, oh! I was a bad, blackhearted baby! “So great a luxury was food, I think No wickedness but I was game to try for it. Now if I wanted anything to drink At any time, I only had to cry for it! Once, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking, My blubbering involved a serious smacking! “We grew up in the usual way—my friend, My foster-brother, daily growing thinner, While gradually I began to mend, And thrived amazingly on double dinner. And every one, besides my foster-mother, Believed that either of us was the other. “I came into his wealth—I bore his name, I bear it still—his property I squandered— I mortgaged everything—and now (oh, shame!) Into a Somers Town shake-down I’ve wandered! I am no PALEY—no, VOLLAIRE—it’s true, my boy! The only rightful PALEY V. is you, my boy! “And all I have is yours—and yours is mine. I still may place you in your true position: Give me the pounds you’ve saved, and I’ll resign My noble name, my rank, and my condition. So far my wickedness in falsely owning Your vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!” * * * * * * * FREDERICK he was a simple soul, He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll, And gave to PALEY his hard-earned store, A hundred and seventy pounds or more. PALEY VOLLAIRE, with many a groan, Gave FREDERICK all that he called his own,— Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean, A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane. And FRED (entitled to all things there) He took the fever from MR. VOLLAIRE, Which killed poor FREDERICK WEST. Meanwhile VOLLAIRE sailed off to Madeira’s isle.