Out on the margin of moonshine land,Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,Out where the whing-whang loves to standWriting his name with his tail on the sand,And wiping it out with his oogerish hand;Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks?Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,Or whatisthe sound the whing-whang seeks,Crouching low by the winding creeks,And holding his breath for weeks and weeks?Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.Aroint him the wraithest of wraithly things!Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs,'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings,And bridal jewels of fangs and stings,And she sits and as sadly and softly singsAs the mildewed whir of her own dead wings;Tickle me, dear; tickle me here;Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
James Whitcomb Riley.
I
On the Coast of CoromandelWhere the early pumpkins blow,In the middle of the woodsLived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.Two old chairs, and half a candle,One old jug without a handle,—These were all his worldly goods:In the middle of the woods,These were all the worldly goodsOf the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
II
Once, among the Bong-trees walkingWhere the early pumpkins blow,To a little heap of stonesCame the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.There he heard a Lady talking,To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,"'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones!On that little heap of stonesSits the Lady Jingly Jones!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
III
"Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!Sitting where the pumpkins blow,Will you come and be my wife?"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,"I am tired of living singly,—On this coast so wild and shingly,—I'm a-weary of my life;If you'll come and be my wife,Quite serene would be my life!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IV
"On this Coast of CoromandelShrimps and watercresses grow,Prawns are plentiful and cheap,"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo."You shall have my chairs and candle,And my jug without a handle!Gaze upon the rolling deep(Fish is plentiful and cheap):As the sea, my love is deep!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
V
Lady Jingly answered sadly,And her tears began to flow,—"Your proposal comes too late,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!I would be your wife most gladly!"(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)"But in England I've a mate!Yes! you've asked me far too late,For in England I've a mate,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
VI
"Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,—Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.)Dorking fowls delights to send,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle,And your jug without a handle,—I can merely be your friend!Should my Jones more Dorkings send,I will give you three, my friend!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
VII
"Though you've such a tiny body,And your head so large doth grow,—Though your hat may blow away,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy,Yet I wish that I could modi-fy the words I needs must say!Will you please to go away?That is all I have to say,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"
VIII
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,Where the early pumpkins blow,To the calm and silent seaFled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,Lay a large and lively Turtle."You're the Cove," he said, "for me:On your back beyond the sea,Turtle, you shall carry me!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IX
Through the silent roaring oceanDid the Turtle swiftly go;Holding fast upon his shellRode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.With a sad primæval motionToward the sunset isles of BoshenStill the Turtle bore him well,Holding fast upon his shell."Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!"Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
X
From the Coast of CoromandelDid that Lady never go,On that heap of stones she mournsFor the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.On that Coast of Coromandel,In his jug without a handleStill she weeps, and daily moans;On the little heap of stonesTo her Dorking Hens she moans,For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Edward Lear.
I
They went to sea in a sieve, they did;In a sieve they went to sea:In spite of all their friends could say,On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,In a sieve they went to sea.And when the sieve turned round and round,And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big;But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig:In a sieve we'll go to sea!"Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
II
They sailed away in a sieve, they did,In a sieve they sailed so fast,With only a beautiful pea-green veilTied with a ribbon by way of a sail,To a small tobacco-pipe mast.And every one said who saw them go,"Oh! won't they soon be upset, you know?For the sky is dark and the voyage is long,And, happen what may, it's extremely wrongIn a sieve to sail so fast."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
III
The water it soon came in, it did;The water it soon came in:So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feetIn a pinky paper all folded neat;And they fastened it down with a pin.And they passed the night in a crockery-jar;And each of them said, "How wise we are!Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,While round in our sieve we spin."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
IV
And all night long they sailed away;And when the sun went down,They whistled and warbled a moony songTo the echoing sound of a coppery gong,In the shade of the mountains brown."O Timballoo! How happy we areWhen we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar!And all night long, in the moonlight pale,We sail away with a pea-green sailIn the shade of the mountains brown."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
V
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,—To a land all covered with trees;And they bought an owl and a useful cart,And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart,And a hive of silvery bees;And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws,And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws,And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree,And no end of Stilton cheese.Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
VI
And in twenty years they all came back,—In twenty years or more;And every one said, "How tall they've grown!For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,And the hills of the Chankly Bore."And they drank their health, and gave them a feast—Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;And every one said, "If we only live,We, too, will go to sea in a sieve,To the hills of the Chankly Bore."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
Edward Lear.
The Pobble who has no toesHad once as many as we;When they said, "Some day you may lose them all,"He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!"And his Aunt Jobiska made him drinkLavender water tinged with pink;For she said, "The World in general knowsThere's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"The Pobble who has no toesSwam across the Bristol Channel;But before he set out he wrapped his noseIn a piece of scarlet flannel.For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harmCan came to his toes if his nose is warm;And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toesAre safe—provided he minds his nose."The Pobble swam fast and well,And when boats or ships came near him,He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bellSo that all the world could hear him.And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,When they saw him nearing the farther side,"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska'sRuncible Cat with crimson whiskers!"But before he touched the shore—The shore of the Bristol Channel,A sea-green Porpoise carried awayHis wrapper of scarlet flannel.And when he came to observe his feet,Formerly garnished with toes so neat,His face at once became forlornOn perceiving that all his toes were gone!And nobody ever knew,From that dark day to the present,Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,In a manner so far from pleasant.Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,Or crafty mermaids stole them away,Nobody knew; and nobody knowsHow the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!The Pobble who has no toesWas placed in a friendly Bark,And they rowed him back and carried him upTo his Aunt Jobiska's Park.And she made him a feast at his earnest wish,Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows,That Pobbles are happier without their toes."
Edward Lear.
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,Who invented a purely original dress;And when it was perfectly made and complete,He opened the door and walked into the street.By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,In the middle of which he inserted his head;His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes,His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose;His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order.And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,A Cloak of green Cabbage leaves, stitched all together.He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noiseOf all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings and Boys;And from every long street and dark lane in the townBeasts, Birdies and Boys in a tumult rushed down.Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage leaf Cloak;Four Apes seized his girdle which vanished like smoke;Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,And the tails were devoured by an ancient He Goat.An army of Dogs in a twinkling toreuphisPork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;And while they were growling and mumbling the ChopsTen Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,For scores of fat Pigs came again and again;They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,They tore off his Stockings, his Shoes and his Drawers.And now from the housetops with screechings descendStriped, spotted, white, black and grey Cats without end;They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,When Crows, Ducks and Hens made a mincemeat of that.They speedily flew at his sleeves in a triceAnd utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,—Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.And he said to himself as he bolted the door,"I will not wear a similar dress any more,Any more, any more, any more, nevermore!"
Edward Lear.
Two old Bachelors were living in one house;
One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse.
Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse,
"This happens just in time, for we've nothing in the house,
Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey,
And what to do for dinner,—since we haven't any money?
And what can we expect if we haven't any dinner
But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?"
Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin,
"We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin'!
If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well,
But how to get that Stuffin' it is difficult to tell!"
And then those two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town
And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down;
They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found
In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round.
But some one said, "A hill there is, a little to the north,
And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth;
And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,—
An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page.
Climb up and seize him by the toes,—all studious as he sits,—
And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits!
Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps),
And your Stuffin' will be ready, and very good—perhaps."
And then those two old Bachelors, without loss of time,
The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb;
And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook,
They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book.
"You earnest Sage!" aloud they cried, "your book you've read enough in!
We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin'!"
But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book
At those two Bachelors' bald heads a certain aim he took;
And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,—
At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town;
And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin')
The Mouse had fled—and previously had eaten up the Muffin.
They left their home in silence by the once convivial door;
And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.
Edward Lear.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe."Beware the Jabberwock, my son!The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shunThe frumious Bandersnatch!"He took his vorpal sword in hand:Long time the manxome foe he sought.So rested he by the Tumtum tree,And stood awhile in thought.And as in uffish thought he stood,The Jabberwock with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,And burbled as it came!One, two! One, two! And through, and throughThe vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back."And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?Come to my arms, my beamish boy!Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! callay!"He chortled in his joy.'Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogovesAnd the mome raths outgrabe.
Lewis Carroll.
I'll tell thee everything I can;There's little to relate.I saw an aged aged man,A-sitting on a gate."Who are you, aged man?" I said,"And how is it you live?"His answer trickled through my headLike water through a sieve.He said, "I look for butterfliesThat sleep among the wheat:I make them into mutton-pies,And sell them in the street.I sell them unto men," he said,"Who sail on stormy seas;And that's the way I get my bread—A trifle, if you please."But I was thinking of a planTo dye one's whiskers green,And always use so large a fanThat they could not be seen.So, having no reply to giveTo what the old man said,I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"And thumped him on the head.His accents mild took up the tale;He said, "I go my waysAnd when I find a mountain-rillI set it in a blaze;And thence they make a stuff they callRowland's Macassar Oil—Yet twopence-halfpenny is allThey give me for my toil."But I was thinking of a wayTo feed oneself on batter,And so go on from day to dayGetting a little fatter.I shook him well from side to side,Until his face was blue;"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,"And what it is you do!"He said, "I hunt for haddock's eyesAmong the heather bright,And work them into waistcoat-buttonsIn the silent night.And these I do not sell for goldOr coin of silvery shine,But for a copper halfpennyAnd that will purchase nine."I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,Or set limed twigs for crabs;I sometimes search the grassy knollsFor wheels of Hansom cabs.And that's the way" (he gave a wink)"By which I get my wealth—And very gladly will I drinkYour Honor's noble health."I heard him then, for I had justCompleted my designTo keep the Menai Bridge from rustBy boiling it in wine.I thanked him much for telling meThe way he got his wealth,But chiefly for his wish that heMight drink my noble health.And now if e'er by chance I putMy fingers into glue,Or madly squeeze a right-hand footInto a left-hand shoe,Or if I drop upon my toeA very heavy weight,I weep, for it reminds me soOf that old man I used to know—Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,Whose hair was whiter than the snow,Whose face was very like a crow,With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,Who seemed distracted with his woe,Who rocked his body to and fro,And muttered mumblingly, and low,As if his mouth were full of dough,Who snorted like a buffalo—That summer evening, long ago,A-sitting on a gate.
Lewis Carroll.
"In winter, when the fields are white,I sing this song for your delight——"In spring, when woods are getting green,I'll try and tell you what I mean:""In summer, when the days are long,Perhaps you'll understand the song:In autumn, when the leaves are brown,Take pen and ink, and write it down.""I sent a message to the fish:I told them 'This is what I wish.'The little fishes of the sea,They sent an answer back to me.The little fishes' answer was,'We cannot do it, Sir, because——'""I sent to them again to say'It will be better to obey.'The fishes answered, with a grin,'Why, what a temper you are in!'I told them once, I told them twice:They would not listen to advice.I took a kettle large and new,Fit for the deed I had to do.My heart went hop, my heart went thump:I filled the kettle at the pump.Then some one came to me and said,'The little fishes are in bed.'I said to him, I said it plain,'Then you must wake them up again.'I said it very loud and clear:I went and shouted in his ear.But he was very stiff and proud:He said, 'You needn't shout so loud!'And he was very proud and stiff:He said, 'I'd go and wake them, if——'I took a corkscrew from the shelf:I went to wake them up myself.And when I found the door was locked,I pulled and pushed and kicked and knocked.And when I found the door was shut,I tried to turn the handle, but——"
Lewis Carroll.
He thought he saw an Elephant,That practised on a fife:He looked again, and found it wasA letter from his wife."At length I realise," he said,"The bitterness of Life!"He thought he saw a BuffaloUpon the chimney-piece:He looked again, and found it wasHis Sister's Husband's Niece."Unless you leave this house," he said,"I'll send for the Police!"He thought he saw a RattlesnakeThat questioned him in Greek:He looked again, and found it wasThe Middle of Next Week."The one thing I regret," he said,"Is that it cannot speak!"He thought he saw a Banker's ClerkDescending from the 'bus:He looked again, and found it wasA Hippopotamus:"If this should stay to dine," he said,"There won't be much for us!"He thought he saw an AlbatrossThat fluttered round the lamp:He looked again, and found it wasA Penny-Postage-Stamp."You'd best be getting home," he said;"The nights are very damp!"He thought he saw a Coach-and-FourThat stood beside his bed:He looked again, and found it wasA Bear without a Head."Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!It's waiting to be fed!"He thought he saw a KangarooThat worked a coffee-mill:He looked again, and found it wasA Vegetable-Pill."Were I to swallow this," he said,"I should be very ill!"
Lewis Carroll.
Sing for the garish eye,When moonless brandlings cling!Let the froddering crooner cry,And the braddled sapster sing.For never, and never again,Will the tottering beechlings play,For bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,And the throngers croon in May!The wracking globe unstrung,Unstrung in the frittering lightOf a moon that knows no day,Of a day that knows no night!Diving away in the crowdOf sparkling frets in spray,The bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,And the throngers croon in May!Hasten, O hapful blue,Blue, of the shimmering brow,Hasten the deed to doThat shall roddle the welkin now!For never again shall a cloudOut-thribble the babbling day,When bratticed wrackers are singing aloud,And the throngers croon in May!
W. S. Gilbert.
Upon the poop the captain stands,As starboard as may be;And pipes on deck the topsail handsTo reef the topsail-gallant strandsAcross the briny sea."Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!"The captain loudly cried;"Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay!For we must luff for Falmouth BayBefore to-morrow's tide."The good ship was a racing yawl,A spare-rigged schooner sloop,Athwart the bows the taffrails allIn grummets gay appeared to fall,To deck the mainsail poop.But ere they made the Foreland Light,And Deal was left behind,The wind it blew great gales that night,And blew the doughty captain tight,Full three sheets in the wind.And right across the tiller headThe horse it ran apace,Whereon a traveller hitched and spedAlong the jib and vanishedTo heave the trysail brace.What ship could live in such a sea?What vessel bear the shock?"Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee!Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree,With many a running block!"And right upon the Scilly IslesThe ship had run aground;When lo! the stalwart Captain GilesMounts up upon the gaff and smiles,And slews the compass round."Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry,And scandalize the skiff;As taut and hoisted high and dryThey see the ship unstoppered lieUpon the sea-girt cliff.And since that day in Falmouth Bay,As herring-fishers trawl,The younkers hear the boatswains sayHow Captain Giles that awful dayPreserved the sinking yawl.
E. H. Palmer.
When sporgles spanned the floreate meadAnd cogwogs gleet upon the lea,Uffia gopped to meet her loveWho smeeged upon the equat sea.Dately she walked aglost the sand;The boreal wind seet in her face;The moggling waves yalped at her feet;Pangwangling was her pace.
Harriet R. White.
'Tis sweet to roam when morning's lightResounds across the deep;And the crystal song of the woodbine brightHushes the rocks to sleep,And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noonIs bathed in a crumbling dew,And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout,To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!
Unknown.
There were three jovial huntsmen,As I have heard them say,And they would go a-huntingAll on a summer's day.All the day they hunted,And nothing could they findBut a ship a-sailing,A-sailing with the wind.One said it was a ship,The other said Nay;The third said it was a houseWith the chimney blown away.And all the night they hunted,And nothing could they find;But the moon a-gliding,A-gliding with the wind.One said it was the moon,The other said Nay;The third said it was a cheese,And half o't cut away.
Unknown.
When good King Arthur ruled the land,He was a goodly king:He stole three pecks of barley meal,To make a bag-pudding.A bag-pudding the king did make,And stuffed it well with plums;And in it put great lumps of fat,As big as my two thumbs.The king and queen did eat thereof,And noblemen beside;And what they could not eat that night,The queen next morning fried.
Unknown.
Hyder iddle diddle dell,A yard of pudding is not an ell;Not forgetting tweedle-dye,A tailor's goose will never fly.
Unknown.
Bright breaks the warrior o'er the ocean waveThrough realms that rove not, clouds that cannot save,Sinks in the sunshine; dazzles o'er the tombAnd mocks the mutiny of Memory's gloom.Oh! who can feel the crimson ecstasyThat soothes with bickering jar the Glorious Tree?O'er the high rock the foam of gladness throws,While star-beams lull Vesuvius to repose:Girds the white spray, and in the blue lagoon,Weeps like a walrus o'er the waning moon?Who can declare?—not thou, pervading boyWhom pibrochs pierce not, crystals cannot cloy;—Not thou soft Architect of silvery gleams,Whose soul would simmer in Hesperian streams,Th' exhaustless fire—the bosom's azure bliss,That hurtles, life-like, o'er a scene like this;—Defies the distant agony of Day—And sweeps o'er hecatombs—away! away!Say shall Destruction's lava load the gale,The furnace quiver and the mountain quail?Say shall the son of Sympathy pretendHis cedar fragrance with our Chief's to blend?There, where the gnarled monuments of sandHowl their dark whirlwinds to the levin brand;Conclusive tenderness; fraternal grog,Tidy conjunction; adamantine bog,Impetuous arrant toadstool; Thundering quince,Repentant dog-star, inessential Prince,Expound. Pre-Adamite eventful gun,Crush retribution, currant-jelly, pun,Oh! eligible Darkness, fender, sting,Heav'n-born Insanity, courageous thing.Intending, bending, scouring, piercing all,Death like pomatum, tea, and crabs must fall.
Unknown.
If we square a lump of pemmicanAnd cube a pot of tea,Divide a musk ox by the spanFrom noon to half-past three;If we calculate the EskimoBy solar parallax,Divide the sextant by a floeAnd multiply the cracksBy nth-powered igloos, we may proveAll correlated facts.If we prolongate the parallelIndefinitely forth,And cube a sledge till we can tellThe real square root of North;Bisect a seal and bifurcateThe tangent with a packOf Polar ice, we get the rateAlong the Polar track,And proof of corollary thingsWhich otherwise we lack.If we multiply the Arctic nightBy X times ox times moose,And build an igloo on the siteOf its hypotenuse;If we circumscribe an arc aboutAn Arctic dog and weighA segment of it, every doubtIs made as clear as day.We also get the price of iceF. O. B. Baffin's Bay.If we amplify the Arctic breezeBy logarithmic signs,And run through the isoscelesImaginary lines,We find that twice the half of oneIs equal to the whole.Which, when the calculus is done,Quite demonstrates the Pole.It also gives its length and breadthAnd what's the price of coal.And what's the price of coal.
J. W. Foley.
The Thingumbob sat at eventide,On the shore of a shoreless sea,Expecting an unexpected attackFrom something it could not foresee.A still calm rests on the angry waves,The low wind whistles a mournful tune,And the Thingumbob sighs to himself, "Alas,I've had no supper now since noon."
Unknown.
Ah! who has seen the mailèd lobster rise,Clap her broad wings, and, soaring, claim the skies?When did the owl, descending from her bower,Crop, 'midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flower;Or the young heifer plunge, with pliant limb,In the salt wave, and, fish-like, try to swim?The same with plants, potatoes 'tatoes breed,The costly cabbage springs from cabbage-seed;Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed;Nor e'er did cooling cucumbers presumeTo flower like myrtle, or like violets bloom.
The Anti-Jacobin.
I'm thankful that the sun and moonAre both hung up so high,That no presumptuous hand can stretchAnd pull them from the sky.If they were not, I have no doubtBut some reforming assWould recommend to take them downAnd light the world with gas.
Unknown.