Only Seven

A parody of Wordsworth's We Are Seven by H S Leigh (CH 1846-52)

I marvell'd why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild
And look as pale as Death.

Adopting a parental tone,
I ask'd her why she cried;
The damsel answered with a groan,
'I've got a pain inside!'

'I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven.'
Said I, 'What is it makes you bad?
How many apples have you had?'
She answered, 'Only seven!'

'And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid?' quoth I;
'Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!'

'If that's the case,' I stammer'd out,
'Of course you've had eleven.'
The maiden answer'd with a pout,
'I ain't had more nor seven!'

I wonder'd hugely what she meant,
And said, 'I'm bad at riddles;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.

'Now, if you won't reform,' said I,
'You'll never go to Heaven.'
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,
'I ain't had more nor seven!'

POSTSCRIPT

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,
Or slightly misapplied;
And so I'd better call my song,
'Lines after Ache-Inside.*'

* A punning reference to the poet Mark Akenside (1721-70, Assistant Physician at CH Newgate Street 1759-?70).