Classicly

I entered the world, singing, instead of crying; at least, my squall was truly melodious, and ravished the ears of the midwife; tho’, I must confess, the envious old hag of a nurse did pretend that my mother and Mrs. Midnight mistook the origin of the wild notes I uttered as soon as I saw the light; and, insisting that they only denoted the wind-cholic, immediately drenched me with a large dose of rhubarb: however, she has candidly confessed, that she easily sang me to sleep whenever I was peevish, and that even by means of such simple melody as Jack Sprat, or hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle. A harsh and menacing recitative would as effectually deter me from a naughty trick, as a good whipping.