Whose footsteps never falter,
Who bring with them where'er they go
A smack of old SIR WALTER.
Of such as he, the men sublime
Who lead their troops victorious,
Whose deeds go down to after-time,
Enshrined in annals glorious!
"Of such as he the bard has said
'Hech thrawfu' raltie rawkie!
Wi' thecht ta' croonie clapperhead
And fash' wi' unco pawkie!'
He'll faint away when I appear
Upon his native heather;
Or p'raps he'll only scream with fear,
Or p'raps the two together."
[Illustration]
The spectre showed himself, alone,
To do his ghostly battling,
With curdling groan and dismal moan
And lots of chains a-rattling!
But no--the chiel's stout Gaelic stuff
Withstood all ghostly harrying,
His fingers closed upon the snuff
Which upwards he was carrying.
For days that ghost declined to stir,
A foggy, shapeless giant--
For weeks that splendid officer
Stared back again defiant!
Just as the Englishman returned
The goblin's vulgar staring,
Just so the Scotchman boldly spurned
The ghost's unmannered scaring.
For several years the ghostly twain
These Britons bold have haunted,
But all their efforts are in vain--
Their victims stand undaunted.
Unto this day the imp and ghost
(Whose powers the imp derided)
Stand each at his allotted post--
The bet is undecided.
[Illustration]
THE MAGNET AND THE CHURN
A Magnet hung in a hardware shop,
And all around was a loving crop
Of scissors and needles, nails and knives,
Offering love for all their lives;
But for iron the Magnet felt no whim,
Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him,
From needles and nails and knives he'd turn,
For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn!
His most æsthetic,
Very magnetic
Fancy took this turn--
"If I can wheedle
A knife or needle,
Why not a Silver Churn?"
And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,
The needles opened their well-drilled eyes,
The pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt,
The scissors declared themselves "cut out,"
The kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said,
While every nail went off its head,
And hither and thither began to roam,
Till a hammer came up--and drove it home.
While this magnetic
Peripatetic
Lover he lived to learn,
By no endeavour,
Can Magnet ever
Attract a Silver Churn!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO
KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO
Was a man-eating African swell;
His sigh was a hullaballoo,
His whisper a horrible yell--
A horrible, horrible yell!
Four subjects, and all of them male,
To BORRIA doubled the knee,
They were once on a far larger scale,
But he'd eaten the balance, you see
("Scale" and "balance" is punning, you see).
There was haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH.
There was lumbering DOODLE-DUM-DEH.
Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH,
And good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH--
Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH.
One day there was grief in the crew,
For they hadn't a morsel of meat,
And BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO
Was dying for something to eat--
"Come, provide me with something to eat!
"ALACK-A-DEY, famished I feel;
Oh, good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,
Where on earth shall I look for a meal?
For I haven't had dinner to-day!--
Not a morsel of dinner to-day!
[Illustration]
"Dear TOOTLE-TUM, what shall we do?
Come, get us a meal, or in truth,
If you don't we shall have to eat you,
Oh, adorable friend of our youth!
Thou beloved little friend of our youth!"
And he answered, "Oh, BUNGALEE BOO,
For a moment I hope you will wait,--
TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO
Is the Queen of a neighbouring state--
A remarkably neighbouring state.
"TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO,
She would pickle deliciously cold--
And her four pretty Amazons, too,
Are enticing, and not very old--
Twenty-seven is not very old.
"There is neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH,
There is rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH,
There is jocular WAGGETY-WEH,
There is musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH--
There's the nightingale DOH-REH-MI-FAH!"
[Illustration]
So the forces of BUNGALEE BOO
Marched forth in a terrible row,
And the ladies who fought for QUEEN LOO
Prepared to encounter the foe--
This dreadful insatiate foe!
But they sharpened no weapons at all,
And they poisoned no arrows--not they!
They made ready to conquer or fall
In a totally different way--
A perfectly different way.
With a crimson and pearly-white dye
They endeavoured to make themselves fair;
With black they encircled each eye,
And with yellow they painted their hair.
(It was wool, but they thought it was hair.)
The warriors met in the field:
And the men of KING BORRIA said,
"Amazonians, immediately yield!"
And their arrows they drew to the head--
Yes, drew them right up to the head.
But jocular WAGGETY-WEH
Ogled DOODLE-DUM-DEH (which was wrong),
And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH
Said, "TOOTLE-TUM, you go along!
You naughty old dear, go along!"
And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH
Tapped ALACK-A-DEY-AH with her fan;
And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH
Said, "Pish, go away, you bad man!
Go away, you delightful young man!"
And the Amazons simpered and sighed,
And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed,
And they opened their pretty eyes wide,
And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed
(At least, if they could, they'd have blushed).
But haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH
Said, "ALACK-A-DEY, what does this mean?"
And despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH
Said, "They think us uncommonly green--
Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!"
Even blundering DOODLE-DUM-DEH
Was insensible quite to their leers,
And said good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,
"It's your blood that we're wanting, my dears--
We have come for our dinners, my dears!"
[Illustration]
And the Queen of the Amazons fell
To BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO,--
In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,
TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO--
The pretty QUEEN TOL-THE-ROL-LOO.
And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH
Was eaten by PISH-POOH-BAH,
And light-hearted WAGGETY-WEH
By dismal ALACK-A-DEY-AH--
Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH.
And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH
Was eaten by DOODLE-DUM-DEH,
And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH
By good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH---
Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH.
[Illustration]
THE FAMILY FOOL
Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,
If you listen to popular rumour;
From morning to night he's so joyous and bright,
And he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;
Yet though people forgive his transgression,
There are one or two rules that all Family Fools
Must observe, if they love their profession.
There are one or two rules,
Half-a-dozen, maybe,
That all family fools,
Of whatever degree,
Must observe if they love their profession.
If you wish to succeed as a jester, you'll need
To consider each person's auricular:
What is all right for B would quite scandalise C
(For C is so very particular);
And D may be dull, and E's very thick skull
Is as empty of brains as a ladle;
While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,
That he's known your best joke from his cradle!
When your humour they flout,
You can't let yourself go;
And it _does_ put you out
When a person says, "Oh!
I have known that old joke from my cradle!"
If your master is surly, from getting up early
(And tempers are short in the morning),
An inopportune joke is enough to provoke
Him to give you, at once, a month's warning.
Then if you refrain, he is at you again,
For he likes to get value for money:
He'll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,
"If you know that you're paid to be funny?"
It adds to the tasks
Of a merryman's place,
When your principal asks,
With a scowl on his face,
If you know that you're paid to be funny?
Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.--
Oh, beware of his anger provoking!
Better not pull his hair--don't stick pins in his chair;
He won't understand practical joking.
If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,
You may get a bland smile from these sages;
But should it, by chance, be imported from France,
Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!
It's a general rule,
Though your zeal it may quench,
If the Family Fool
Makes a joke that's _too_ French,
Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!
Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack,
And your senses with toothache you're losing,
And you're mopy and flat--they don't fine you for that
If you're properly quaint and amusing!
Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day,
And took with her your trifle of money;
Bless your heart, they don't mind--they're exceedingly kind--
They don't blame you--as long as you're funny!
It's a comfort to feel
If your partner should flit,
Though _you_ suffer a deal,
_They_ don't mind it a bit--
They don't blame you--so long as you're funny!
[Illustration]
THE PERIWINKLE GIRL
I've often thought that headstrong youths
Of decent education
Determine all-important truths
With strange precipitation.
The ever-ready victims they,
Of logical illusions,
And in a self-assertive way
They jump at strange conclusions.
Now take my case: Ere sorrow could
My ample forehead wrinkle,
I had determined that I should
Not care to be a winkle.
"A winkle," I would oft advance
With readiness provoking,
"Can seldom flirt, and never dance,
Or soothe his mind by smoking."
In short, I spurned the shelly joy,
And spoke with strange decision--
Men pointed to me as a boy
Who held them in derision.
But I was young--too young, by far--
Or I had been more wary,
I knew not then that winkles are
The stock-in-trade of MARY.
I had not watched her sunlight blithe
As o'er their shells it dances--
I've seen those winkles almost writhe
Beneath her beaming glances.
Of slighting all the winkly brood
I surely had been chary,
If I had known they formed the food
And stock-in-trade of MARY.
Both high and low and great and small
Fell prostrate at her tootsies,
They all were noblemen, and all
Had balances at COUTTS'S.
Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,
DUKE BAILEY and DUKE HUMPHY,
Who ate her winkles till they felt
Exceedingly uncomfy.
[Illustration]
DUKE BAILEY greatest wealth computes,
And sticks, they say, at no-thing,
He wears a pair of golden boots
And silver underclothing.
DUKE HUMPHY, as I understand,
Though mentally acuter,
His boots are only silver, and
His underclothing pewter.
A third adorer had the girl,
A man of lowly station--
A miserable grov'ling Earl
Besought her approbation.
This humble cad she did refuse
With much contempt and loathing,
He wore a pair of leather shoes
And cambric underclothing!
"Ha! ha!" she cried. "Upon my word!
Well, really--come, I never!
Oh, go along, it's too absurd!
My goodness! Did you ever?
"Two Dukes would Mary make a bride,
And from her foes defend her"--
"Well, not exactly that," they cried,
"We offer guilty splendour.
"We do not offer marriage rite,
So please dismiss the notion!"
"Oh dear," said she, "that alters quite
The state of my emotion."
The Earl he up and says, says he,
"Dismiss them to their orgies,
For I am game to marry thee
Quite reg'lar at St. George's."
(He'd had, it happily befell,
A decent education,
His views would have befitted well
A far superior station.)
His sterling worth had worked a cure,
She never heard him grumble;
She saw his soul was good and pure,
Although his rank was humble.
[Illustration]
Her views of earldoms and their lot,
All underwent expansion--
Come, Virtue in an earldom's cot!
Go, Vice in ducal mansion!
[Illustration]
SANS SOUCI
I cannot tell what this love may be
That cometh to all but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they'd imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep,
Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?
If love is a thorn, they show no wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who gather and gather it, day by day!
If love is a nettle that makes you smart,
Why do you wear it next your heart?
And if it be neither of these, say I,
Why do you sit and sob and sigh?
[Illustration]
THOMSON GREEN AND HARRIET HALE
(_To be sung to the Air of "An 'Orrible Tale."_)
Oh list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE;
Its truth in one remark you'll sum--
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
Oh, THOMSON GREEN was an auctioneer,
And made three hundred pounds a year;
And HARRIET HALE, most strange to say,
Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.
[Illustration]
Oh, THOMSON GREEN, I may remark,
Met HARRIET HALE in Regent's Park,
Where he, in a casual kind of way,
Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.
They met again, and strange, though true,
He courted her for a month or two,
Then to her pa he said, says he,
"Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!"
Their names were regularly banned,
The wedding day was settled, and
I've ascertained by dint of search
They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot's Church.
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,
Its truth in one remark you'll sum--
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
That very self-same afternoon
They started on their honeymoon,
And (oh, astonishment!) took flight
To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.
But now--you'll doubt my word, I know--
In a month they both returned, and lo!
Astounding fact! this happy pair
Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!
They led a weird and reckless life,
They dined each day, this man and wife
(Pray disbelieve it, if you please),
On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.
In time came those maternal joys
Which take the form of girls or boys,
And strange to say of each they'd one--
A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,
Its truth in one remark you'll sum--
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
My name for truth, is gone, I fear,
But, monstrous as it may appear,
They let their drawing-room one day
To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.
[Illustration]
Whenever THOMSON GREEN fell sick
His wife called in a doctor, quick,
From whom some words like these would come--
_Fiat mist. sumendum haustus_, in a _cochleyareum_.
For thirty years this curious pair
Hung out in Canonbury Square,
And somehow, wonderful to say,
They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.
Well, THOMSON GREEN fell ill and died;
For just a year his widow cried,
And then her heart she gave away
To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.
Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,
Its truth in one remark you'll sum--
"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"
[Illustration]
A RECIPE
Take a pair of sparkling eyes,
Hidden, ever and anon,
In a merciful eclipse--
Do not heed their mild surprise--
Having passed the Rubicon,
Take a pair of rosy lips;
Take a figure trimly planned--
Such as admiration whets
(Be particular in this);
Take a tender little hand,
Fringed with dainty fingerettes,
Press it--in parenthesis;--
Take all these, you lucky man--
Take and keep them, if you can.
Take a pretty little cot--
Quite a miniature affair--
Hung about with trellised vine.
Furnish it upon the spot
With the treasures rich and rare
I've endeavoured to define.
Live to love and love to live--
You will ripen at your ease,
Growing on the sunny side--
Fate has nothing more to give.
You're a dainty man to please
If you are not satisfied.
Take my counsel, happy man:
Act upon it, if you can!
[Illustration]
BOB POLTER
Bob Polter was a navvy, and
His hands were coarse, and dirty too,
His homely face was rough and tanned,
His time of life was thirty-two.
He lived among a working clan
(A wife he hadn't got at all),
A decent, steady, sober man--
No saint, however--not at all
He smoked, but in a modest way,
Because he thought he needed it;
He drank a pot of beer a day,
And sometimes he exceeded it.
At times he'd pass with other men
A loud convivial night or two,
With, very likely, now and then,
On Saturdays, a fight or two.
But still he was a sober soul,
A labour-never-shirking man,
Who paid his way--upon the whole,
A decent English working-man.
[Illustration]
One day, when at the Nelson's Head
(For which he may be blamed of you),
A holy man appeared and said,
"Oh, ROBERT, I'm ashamed of you."
He laid his hand on ROBERT'S beer
Before he could drink up any,
And on the floor, with sigh and tear,
He poured the pot of "thruppenny."
"Oh, ROBERT, at this very bar,
A truth you'll be discovering,
A good and evil genius are
Around your noddle hovering.
"They both are here to bid you shun
The other one's society,
For Total Abstinence is one,
The other, Inebriety."
He waved his hand--a vapour came--
A wizard, POLTER reckoned him:
A bogy rose and called his name,
And with his finger beckoned him.
The monster's salient points to sum,
His breath was hot as cautery;
His glowing nose suggested rum;
His eyes were gin-and-watery.
His dress was torn--for dregs of ale
And slops of gin had rusted it;
His pimpled face was wan and pale,
Where filth had not encrusted it.
"Come, POLTER," said the fiend, "begin,
And keep the bowl a-flowing on--
A working-man needs pints of gin
To keep his clockwork going on."
BOB shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss,
If you take me for one of you--
You filthy brute, get out of this--
BOB POLTER don't want none of you."
The demon gave a drunken shriek,
And crept away in stealthiness,
And lo, instead, a person sleek
Who seemed to burst with healthiness.
[Illustration]
"In me, as your adviser hints,
Of Abstinence you've got a type--
Of MR. TWEEDIE'S pretty prints
I am the happy prototype.
"If you abjure the social toast,
And pipes, and such frivolities,
You possibly some day may boast
My prepossessing qualities!"
BOB rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink.
"You almost make me tremble, you!
If I abjure fermented drink,
Shall I, indeed, resemble you?
"And will my whiskers curl so tight?
My cheeks grow smug and muttony?
My face become so pink and white?
My coat so blue and buttony?
"Will trousers, such as yours, array
Extremities inferior?
Will chubbiness assert its sway
All over my exterior?
"In this, my unenlightened state,
To work in heavy boots I comes--
Will pumps henceforward decorate
My tiddle toddle tootsicums?
"And shall I get so plump and fresh,
And look no longer seedily?
My skin will henceforth fit my flesh
So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?"
The phantom said, "You'll have all this,
You'll have no kind of huffiness,
Your life will be one chubby bliss,
One long unruffled puffiness!"
"Be off," said irritated BOB,
"Why come you here to bother one?
You pharisaical old snob,
You're wuss, almost, than t'other one!
"I takes my pipe--I takes my pot,
And drunk I'm never seen to be,
I'm no teetotaller or sot,
And as I am I mean to be!"
[Illustration]
THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID
HE. I have a song to sing, O!
SHE. Sing me your song, O!
HE. It is sung to the moon
By a love-lorn loon,
Who fled from the mocking throng, O!
It's the song of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me--lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
SHE. I have a song to sing, O!
HE. Sing me your song, O!
SHE. It is sung with the ring
Of the song maids sing
Who love with a love life-long, O!
It's the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me--lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
HE. I have a song to sing, O!
SHE. Sing me your song, O!
HE. It is sung to the knell
Of a churchyard bell,
And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!
It's a song of a popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me--lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
SHE. I have a song to sing, O!
HE. Sing me your song, O!
SHE. It is sung with a sigh
And a tear in the eye,
For it tells of a righted wrong, O!
It's a song of a merrymaid, once so gay,
Who turned on her heel and tripped away
From the peacock popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble heart that he did not prize;
And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes,
For the love of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
BOTH. Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me--lackadaydee!
His pains were o'er, and he sighed no more,
For he lived in the love of a ladye!
[Illustration]
ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN
MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS M'CLAN
Was the son of an elderly labouring man,
You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And p'raps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.
From the bonnie blue Forth to the hills of Deeside,
Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde.
There wasn't a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS M'CLAN.
No other could wake such detestable groans,
With reed and with chaunter--with bag and with drones:
All day and all night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.
He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighbouring maidens would gather around
To list to his pipes and to gaze in his e'en,
Especially ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN.
All loved their M'CLAN, save a Sassenach brute,
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;
He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,
Though his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.
TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense
To make him a Scotchman in every sense;
But this is a matter, you'll readily own,
That isn't a question of tailors alone.
A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;
Stick a skean in his hose--wear an acre of stripes--
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.
CLONGLOCKETTY'S pipings all night and all day
Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY;
The girls were amused at his singular spleen,
Especially ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN.
"MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad,
With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad;
If you really must play on that cursed affair,
My goodness! play something resembling an air."
[Illustration]
Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON M'CLAN--
The clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;
For all were enraged at the insult, I ween--
Especially ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN.
"Let's show," said M'CLAN, "to this Sassenach loon
That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.
Let's see," said M'CLAN, as he thoughtfully sat,
"'_In My Cottage_' is easy--I'll practise at that."
He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until
(You'll hardly believe it) M'CLAN, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.
[Illustration]
It was wild--it was fitful--as wild as the breeze--
It wandered about into several keys;
It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware,
But still it distinctly suggested an air.
The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced,
He shrieked in his agony--bellowed and pranced;
And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene,
Especially ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN.
"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;
And fill a' yer lugs wi' the exquisite sound.
An air frae the bagpipes--beat that if ye can!
Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS M'CLAN!"
The fame of his piping spread over the land:
Respectable widows proposed for his hand,
And maidens came flocking to sit on the green--
Especially ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN.
One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore
He'd stand it no longer--he drew his claymore,
And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste),
Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.
Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS M'CLAN--
Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man--
The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene,
Especially ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN.
It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY
To find them "take on" in this serious way,
He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words:--