THE NEW-BORN INFANT Whether beneath sweet beds of roses, As foolish little Ann supposes, The spirit of a babe reposes Before it to the body come; Or, as philosophy more wise Thinks, it descendeth from the skies, We know the babe's now in the room.

THE NEW-BORN INFANT Whether beneath sweet beds of roses, As foolish little Ann supposes, The spirit of a babe reposes Before it to the body come; Or, as philosophy more wise Thinks, it descendeth from the skies, We know the babe's now in the room.

You'll see himas a Teutontrebly taxed, Mooning 'midst metaphysical supposes; Twirling a huge moustache, superbly waxed, And taking pride in slitting comrades' noses.