A SONG
We have an old Mother that peevish is grown, She snubs us like Children that scarce walk alone; She forgets we’re grown up and have Sense of our own; Which nobody can deny, deny, Which no body can deny.
If we don’t obey Orders, whatever the Case; She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all Patience, and sometimes she hits us a Slap in the Face, Which nobody can deny, &c.;
Her Orders so odd are, we often suspect That Age has impaired her sound Intellect: But still an old Mother should have due Respect, Which nobody can deny, &c.;
Let’s bear with her Humours as well as we can: But why should we bear the Abuse of her Man? When Servants make Mischief, they earn the Rattan, Which nobody should deny, &c.;
Know too, ye bad Neighbours, who aim to divide The Sons from the Mother, that still she’s our Pride; And if ye attack her we’re all of her side, Which nobody can deny, &c.;
We’ll join in her Lawsuits, to baffle all those, Who, to get what she has, will be often her Foes: For we know it must all be our own, when she goes, Which nobody can deny, deny, Which nobody can deny.
c. 1765