The clean shirt nice and warm,
And turn me up and cuddle me,
Without supposing harm.
And Catherine never called me now
The bathroom door to keep,
The while she bathed, lest any came
And say, "You must not peep."
Nor Harriet, when she climb'd the trees,
Would let me now stand under,
All seem'd to guard their modesties
With care that made me wonder.
But fostering Venus kindly led
Her young disciple still,
Although I kept my maidenhead
Sorely against my will.
For though from British blood I sprung
Yet born in India's land,
I felt while callow, raw and young
Cythera's guiding hand.
And night by night, when fast asleep,
Wits, nerves upon the stretch,
My melting heart I could not keep,
I was an amorous wretch.
One day I chanced to climb outside
My cousin's bathing room,
And found a hole through which I spied
The place I'd used to roam.
I sigh'd to think how oft the girls
Had idly let me in,
"It's nobody but little Charles,
No matter though he's seen."
Yes, I was their sole favourite,
No other boy was suffer'd
To share in many a luscious sight
To me so freely offer'd.
"Those joys (thought I) are now no morel"
I started — at that minute,
Dear Kate came to the bathroom door,
She lock'd herself within it.
"Oh, do I dream, or is it true?
And is she going to bathe,
And treat me to the fullest view
Of all above, beneath?"
She dropt her gown, and one by one
She stript her of her clothes,
Her smock is all she now has on,
"Oh, will she nought expose?"
There, now it's off — and Catherine stands
In utter nudity,