Pouf! Pouf! I'm that awfully out of breath with my long and
terrified scamper,
With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that
Milo would hamper.
Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile
that nipped him;
No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a
pine-tree that gripped him.
But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in
one, Sir.
And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much
further _I_ can run, Sir.
Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and
stop him?
Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the _cloture_ pound
they should pop him,
With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its
three blessed wings, confound it!
I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of
getting round it;
And I _am_ that fat--no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear
ARTHUR, quite lathy.
And I'm sure, by the bellow of that bull, that the fellow is
getting exceedingly wrathy.
Pouf! Now for a burst! Which to take the first of the turnstile
wings is the floorer.
If I breast it wrongly, though I'm going strongly, I'll expose my
rear to yon roarer.
Eugh! I fancy I feel his horns, like steel, my person viciously
prodding.
Against such points broadcloth's no protection, although padded
with woollen "wadding."
Oh, hang this bag! I shall lose the swag, if I slacken or lag one
second.
I thought I had measured my distance so well, but I fear that I
must have misreckoned.
That bull of GLADDY'S most certainly mad is, though he gave me his
word, the Old Slyboots,
It was perfectly quiet. I have SALISBURY'S fiat, but I wish he was
only in _my_ boots.
"Tithes first," indeed! Why, with all my speed, and my puffings,
and perspiration,
I doubt if I'll be in time to get through; and as for that
"Compensation,"
It is sure to stick. "_Quick_, SMITH, _man_, _quick!_" Oh, it's all
very well to holloa;
With a sack on one's back, and a bull on one's track, 'tisn't easy
that counsel to follow.
My life's hardly worth an hour's "Purchase," if I'm overtaken by
Taurus.
Such brutes didn't ought to be loose in the fields, to bore us,
and score us, and gore us.
"_Run! run!_" Oh, _ain't_ I running like winking? Reach the
turnstile? I may just do it
But with its three wings--oh, confound the things!--I much doubt
if I'll ever get _through_ it!
[_Left trying._
* * * * *