THE 
 
 FATHER’S PETITION! 
 
 A PARODY OF “THE BEGGAR’S PETITION.” 
 
 Who would bo a father Old Dowton* 
 
 •• Learn to be wife from othen* ills* 
 
 And ye shall do full well.”— ’Shakspearc. 
 
 PITY the sorrows of a poor weak inan ! 
 
 Whose fruitful vine** has borne him lots of brats j 
 Whose joys have dwindled till find none he can,— 
 
 Oh t give him hope, and caution thoughtless flats I 
 
 These seedy** clothes my empty purse bespeak, 
 
 These uncomb'd locks proclaim my num’rous cares ; 
 And many a furrow in my once plump cheek 
 Has been occasion’d by a host of fears. 
 
 Yon house, selected by the youths around. 
 
 Its tempting inmates drew me in the snare ; 
 
 For beauty there a residence had found, 
 
 And parents who e'er promised you so fair ! 
 
 Hard is the fate of those who’ re ‘‘ green*’ and poor ! 
 
 Here as I craved a little of their tin,** 
 
 My spouse’s parents drove me from the door. 
 
 To seek the trifle — where I could it win f 
 Oh! take, take warning by my wretched doom ! 
 
 Pert are my girls, and headstrong is each son : 
 
 Short be the time till I’ve at home more room. 
 
 For I’m a sire, and miserably ** done.” 
 
 Should I reveal the number of my woes — 
 
 If soft compassion ever touch’d your breast. 
 
 Your heart would not withstand the shock, God knows. 
 And debts long standing would not be repress’d. 
 
 Wives bring such fam’lies ! ’tis why I repine ; 
 
 *Twas children brought me in the mess” you see,~ 
 And your snug life might soon become like mine— 
 
 The man from nurse and doctors never free ! 
 
 A little pleasure once fell to my lot — 
 
 Then, like a fool, I went to Church one morn ; 
 
 Ah ! soon from care short intervals I got. 
 
 My fortune waned, and squallers still were born I 
 
 My bus’ness— once the boiler of my pot. 
 
 Gain’d by another who e’er cash could pay. 
 
 Kept still declining — I became a sot— 
 
 And doom'd I was in poverty to stray. 
 
 My care-worn wife — so often in **the straw**— 
 
 Struck, too, with thoughts of what our fate must bo. 
 
 Droop, slowly droop, the victim soon we saw. 
 
 Then leave the world and all our charge** to me I 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor weak man ! 
 
 Whose fruitful vine** has borne him lots of brats; 
 Whose joys have dwindled till find none he can,— 
 
 Oh I give him hope, and caution thoughtless flats I 
 
 Great Totham^ October^ 1841.