A CROCODILENay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not for youTo blubber o'er Max Taubles for he's dead.By Heaven! my hearty, if you only knewHow better is a grave-worm in the headThan brains like yours—how far more decent, too,A tomb in far Corea than a bedWhere Peter lies with Peter, you would covetHis happier state and, dying, learn to love it.In the recesses of the silent tombNo Maunderings of yours disturb the peace.Your mental bag-pipe, droning like the gloomOf Hades audible, perforce must ceaseFrom troubling further; and that crack o' doom,Your mouth, shaped like a long bow, shall releaseIn vain such shafts of wit as it can utter—The ear of death can't even hear them flutter.
Nay, Peter Robertson, 'tis not for youTo blubber o'er Max Taubles for he's dead.By Heaven! my hearty, if you only knewHow better is a grave-worm in the headThan brains like yours—how far more decent, too,A tomb in far Corea than a bedWhere Peter lies with Peter, you would covetHis happier state and, dying, learn to love it.In the recesses of the silent tombNo Maunderings of yours disturb the peace.Your mental bag-pipe, droning like the gloomOf Hades audible, perforce must ceaseFrom troubling further; and that crack o' doom,Your mouth, shaped like a long bow, shall releaseIn vain such shafts of wit as it can utter—The ear of death can't even hear them flutter.