Lord Byron (1788–1824). Poetry of Byron. 1881.
IV. SatiricOur Children
I
To find our children running restive;—they,
In whom our brightest days we would retrace,
Our little selves re-form’d in finer clay,
Just as old age is creeping on apace,
And clouds come o’er the sunset of our day,
They kindly leave us, though not quite alone,
But in good company—the gout or stone.
(Provided they don’t come in after dinner); ’Tis beautiful to see a matron bring Her children up (if nursing them don’t thin her); Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling To the fireside (a sight to touch a sinner) A lady with her daughters or her nieces Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces.