Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
And besought him to look at his arrow;
"'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say,
'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow.
There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart,
For it flutters quite false to my aim;
'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart,
And the world really jests at my name.
"I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare,
I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;
'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear,
And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;
But it falls without touching--I'll break it, I vow,
For there's Hymen beginning to pout;
He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low,
That Zephyr might puff it right out."
Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,
Till Vulcan the weapon restored;
"There, take it, young sir; try it now--if it fail,
I will ask neither fee nor reward."
The urchin shot out, and rare havoc he made,
The wounded and dead were untold;
But no wonder the rogue had such slaughtering trade,
For the arrow was laden with _gold_.