A touch, a smack! A boxèd ear.
There came the sound of a smart slap.
The Fairy Prince, with cry of fear,
His hand unto his cheek did clap.
The Sleeping Beauty gave a gape,
A wide-mouthed yawn, a long-drawn stretch.
_He_ rubbed his chins. "This _is_ a jape!
I _knew_ my style the girl would fetch!
"In spite of all that WILSON says,[*]
I trust those Revenue Returns.
She _does_ revive! Be mine the praise!
By Jove, though, how my left ear burns!
I told 'em that I'd do the trick
With my new fakement, the Death Duties.
Come, Miss, wake up! Revive, dear, quick!
You sleepiest of Sleeping Beauties!"
At last sweet slumbering Trade awoke,
And on her couch her form upreared.
The Prince smiled, rubbed his chins, and spoke.
"Ah, WILSON'S prophecy is queered.
He swore that you would _not_ revive,
In his Cassandra-like Review,
But don't sit yawning! Look alive!
Or men will swear I've humbugged you!"
"All right!" said sleepy Trade. "But still
My joints feel somewhat stiff or so.
Say, have you passed that Irish Bill
You schemed--_how_ long was it ago?"
The Chancellor subdued a curse,
Which scarce would serve for a reply,
But dallied with his well-filled purse,
And smiling, put the question by.
[Footnote: * In a pessimistic editorial article, opening the new
volume of the _Investor's Review_.]
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