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SAY, as one who never feared

The wrath of a subscriber's bullet,

I pity him who has a beard

But has no little girl to pull it!

When wife and I have finished tea,

Our baby woos me with her prattle,

And, perching proudly on my knee,

She gives my petted whiskers battle.

With both her hands she tugs away,

While scolding at me kind o' spiteful;

You'll not believe me when I say

I find the torture quite delightful!

No other would presume, I ween,

To trifle with this hirsute wonder,

Else would I rise in vengeful mien

And rend his vandal frame asunder!