(A BIRTHDAY ODE.)
The Muses, those painstaking Mentors of mine,
Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine!
'Tis her _fete_--so, although retrospection is pleasant,
While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present.
A Gift!--In their praise she has raved, sung, and written,
Still, I don't seem to care for pup, pony, or kitten;
Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol:
She's too old for a watch, and too young for a doll!
Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chips,
For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips.
Then her mouth--when she's happy--indeed, it appears
To laugh at the tips of her comical EARS.
Her Ears,--Ah, her Ears!--I remember the squallings
That greeted my own ears, when Rambert and
Lawlings Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing--
Come, I'll give her for each of those Organs an Earring.
Here they are! They are formed of the two scarabaei
That I bought of the old _contadino_ at Veii.
They cost me some _pauls_, but, as history shows,
For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through the Nose.
And now, Little Pitcher, give ear to my rede,
And guard these two gems with a scrupulous heed,
For think of the woeful mishap that befel
The damsel who dropt her pair into a well.
That poor Little Pitcher would gladly have flown,
Or given her Ears to have let well alone;
For when she got home her Instructress severe
Dismissed her to bed with a Flea in her Ear.
What? Tell you that tale? Come, a tale with a sting
Would be rather too much of an excellent thing!
I can't point a moral--or sing you the song--
My Years are too short--and your Ears are too long.