No more the swindler singly seeks his prey;
To hunt in couples is the modern way
A rascal, from the public to purloin,
An honest man to hide away the coin.
He held a book in his knotty paws,
And its title grand read he:
'The Chronicles of the Kings' it was,
By the History Companee.
'I'm a monarch,' he said
(But a tear he shed)
'And my picter here you see.
One thousand years I slept beneath the sod,
My sleep in 1901 beginning,
Then, by the action of some scurvy god
Who happened then to recollect my sinning,
I was revived and given another inning.
O Abner Doble-whose 'catarrhal name'
Budd of that ilk might envy-'tis a rough
Rude thing to say, but it is plain enough
Your name is to be sneezed at: its acclaim
Will 'fill the speaking trump of future fame'
Hours I've immersed my muzzle in this tarn
And, quaffing copious potations, tried
To suck it dry; but ever as I pumped
Its waters into my distended skin
Tut! Moody, do not try to show
To gentlemen and ladies
That if they have not 'Faith,' they'll go
Headlong to Hades.
Posterity with all its eyes
Will come and view him where he lies.
Then, turning from the scene away
With a concerted shrug, will say:
'H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus
'The Social World'! O what a world it is
Where full-grown men cut capers in the German,
Cotillion, waltz, or what you will, and whizz
And spin and hop and sprawl about like mermen!
The apparel does _not_ proclaim the man
Polonius lied like a partisan,
And Salomon still would a hero seem
If (Heaven dispel the impossible dream!)
He stood in a shroud on the hangman's trap,