A Baby Was Sleeping, Its Mother Was

Where's The Snow That Fell The Year That's Fled--where's The Snow?

When Once The Itch Of Literature Comes Over A Man, Nothing Can Cure It But The Scratching Of A Pen. But If You Have Not A Pen, I Suppose You Must Scratch Any Way You Can.

A Baby Was Sleeping, Its Mother Was Weeping.

My Hearing Has Suffered Seriously; Just Now I Am Obliged To Have The Assistance Of An Ear Trumpet. Think Of That, My Beauty! - There 's A State For Your Old Lover To Be In! - No More Tender Whisperings! Imagine Sweet Confessions To Be Made Through An Ear Trumpet!

For A Ballad's A Thing You Expect To Find Lies In.