[Illustration]
Behold that urchin, occupied
In counting with an honest pride
The marbles he has won!
O tardy messenger of fate,
Without distinction, small and great,
Their telegrams, perforce, await
Until your game is done.
Perchance a philosophic strain
Makes you regard as wholly vain
Our human bliss and woes;
What matters, whether State affairs,
Or news of good, or weighty carts,
Or tidings relative to shares
Within your bag repose?
Well, not by me will you be blamed;
I like to see you not ashamed
To dawdle for awhile;
You furnish, by example sage,
A moral for our busy age;
And so, though others fume and rage,
I watch you with a smile.
He moves at length, and now we'll see
Which way ... This telegram for me?
Oh, worst of human crimes
Is such delay!--it's monstrous quite!
I'll forward a complaint to-night!
Here, pen and paper--let me write
A letter to the _Times_!
* * * * *
MRS. RAM was heard to remark that she "didn't know a finer body of
men than the Yokel Loamanry." Probably the old lady meant the Local
Yeomanry.
* * * * *