I'll send her old Stenton's, I know I've well chosen;
Be it frost, be it thaw, the horse can well canter;
The sight of the beast cannot help to enchant her.
All the boys at our school are well, tho' yet many
Are suffered, at home, to suck eggs with their granny.
"To-morrow," says daddy, "you must go, my dear Billy,
To Englefield House; do not cry, you are silly."
Says the mother, all dressed in silk and in satin,
"Don't cram the poor boy with your Greek and your Latin,
I'll have him a little longer before mine own eyes,
To nurse him and feed him with tarts and mince-pies;
We'll send him to school when the weather is warmer;
Come kiss me, my pretty, my sweet little charmer!"
But now I must banish all fun and all folly,
So doleful's the news I am going to tell ye:
Poor Wade, my schoolfellow, lies low in the gravel,
One month ere fifteen put an end to his travel;
Harmless and mild, and remark'd for good nature;
The cause of his death was his overgrown stature:
His epitaph I wrote, as inserted below;
What tribute more friendly could I on him bestow?
The bard craves one shilling of his own dear mother,
And, if you think proper, add to it another.

That epitaph is better known, but deserves to be better still:

Here lies interred, in silent shade,
The frail remains of Hamlet Wade;
A youth more promising ne'er took breath;
But ere fifteen laid cold in death!
Ye young, ye old, and ye of middle age,
Act well your part, for quit the stage
Of mortal life, one day you must,
And, like him, crumble into dust.

Surely the boy of nine years old who wrote this was destined to be
something better than a minor poet. And did not the delightful mother
who encouraged him to express himself deserve something better for her
son? Indeed, he must have been an enchanting child, with his long,
flaxen curls, bright colouring, and fine, intelligent head. One fancies
him a happy creature, making light work of his Greek and Latin grammar
at Mr. Wicks's school on Englefield Green, at home spoilt and educated,
in the best and most literal sense of the word, by his pretty mother and
his gallant old grandfather. No wonder Queen Charlotte, driving in
Windsor Park, stopped her carriage and got down to kiss the winsome
little boy.

From Peacock's youth and early writings (he was born in