Mysterious Murphy, whose transcendent skill
Makes hail, rain, vapour,
Come forth obsequious to your will,—
At least on paper,—
Tell us what famous college
Bestow'd your wondrous knowledge!
Perchance your learned sconce found it _at once_;
Perhaps _by degree_ of T.C.D.
Some say the Prince of Evil has been too civil,
And that, in change for all your knowledge boasted
You're doomed—like other murphies—to be roasted.
Some think, like me for one,
You've kissed the Blarney Stone;
But though your blunders make a pretty rout,
Sure, if you're right, by _second_ sight,
You well may be, _at first_, a little out.
But cock your weather eye athwart the sky,
Of wind and storm disclose your store,
For one year more,
And tell us true.—
Led by your lies the ships _lie to_,
Or snugly _arbour'd_, with _bower anchor_ ride,
And lose the tide—
Their funnies near, the watermen look sad,
Short cut or shag alone their sorrow lulls,
In sunshine read your page of weather bad,
And shake their heads, for no one wants their sculls.
But, sad to think, the washerwoman's pain,
Praying for rain,
And vainly hoping, as for showers she sniffs,
To fill her _butts_ with your delusive _ifs_.
Ah, me! I sought the throngs in Beulah's bowers,
Seduced from home by your _fair_ fiction,
But found none _out_, amid the drizzling showers,
Save my sad self and your prediction.
Now if again the weather's care you take on,
Don't try your flam on,
But if you wish to save your bacon,
Give us less gammon.
[Illustration]
STUBBS'S CALENDAR;
OR,
THE FATAL BOOTS.