That long-winged boy is sure to prate,
So forward and so sly,
He grows too great, 'tis quite too late
To have him peep and pry.
He never leaves our sight, he's here
And there and everywhere,
A listening ear for ever near
We will no longer bear.
We must fall on him might and main,
Bridget and I and you,
But don't be cruel, naughty Jane,
Don't kiss him, silly Prue!
We'll set him in the stocks and go,
We'll lock him fast all day,
But we may let him keep his bow—
The child must have his play.
Thus did they, and with laughter great,
Their game was well begun,
Alas; ere they had shut the gate,
He pinked them every one.