Then it was I observed two things That grew from his shoulders--two big wings! And I joined in the people’s laughter. Tho’ killing is often out of place, A circumstance may alter a case. So I took my pad and pencil-case, And for want of a missile, in its place I tossed these verses after.
+------------------------------------+ | _The Mermaid Culture Club request | | That you will kindly be | | On such and such a day their guest | | At something after three._ | +------------------------------------+
I wrote at once that “I should be Most charmed,” and donn’d my best Dress diving-suit,--a joy to see,-- And at their club-house ’neath the sea Arrived at “something after three” Promptly (unpunctuality Is something I detest). The President, a mermaid fair, Sat by a coral table, And read an essay with an air Intelligent and able Upon--but you will never guess The subject--it was nothing less Than _sunshades_ and _umbrellas_. I really did my very best To keep from laughing--as their guest. That it was hard must be confessed When next the meeting was addressed On _shoes_, and which would wear the best-- _Tan slippers or prunellas_. Then came (it did look like a joke) Essays on _bonnet_, _hat_, and _toque_: Said I, “They must be mocking.” And when at length a mermaid rose, And read a thesis to expose The latest novelty in _hose_, I felt my reason rocking. But when at last the thing was o’er, And I was back again on shore, I fell to moralizing. And as remembrance came to me Of other clubs _not_ in the sea, Of essays read by ladies fair Upon the “why” and “whence” and “where,” Said I, “It’s not surprising.”
Upon a time I had a Heart, And it was bright and gay; And I gave it to a Lady fair To have and keep alway.
She soothed it and she smoothed it And she stabbed it till it bled; She brightened it and lightened it And she weighed it down with lead.
She flattered it and battered it And she filled it full of gall; Yet had I Twenty Hundred Hearts, Still should she have them all.
I’ve often wondered--have n’t you?-- What all the little angels do To while eternity away, When grown-up angels sing and play Upon their harps with golden strings, And lutes and violas and things. What do they do? What do they play To while eternity away? After much pondering profound, Perhaps an answer I have found-- I give it you for what it’s worth. The people now upon this earth, Who neither quite deserve to go Above hereafter, nor below-- The prig, the poser, and the crank; The snob, who thinks of naught but rank; The gossip and the fool--in short, All nuisances of every sort-- Will change into amusing toys For little angel girls and boys. The braggart will confer a boon By changing to a toy balloon; The snob tuft-hunter and the bore To shuttlecock and battledore Will turn; the highfalutin wights The angel boys will fly as kites; The gossip then will cease his prattle, And be an angel baby’s rattle; The prig--but you have got me there. Whether in heaven, or elsewhere, ’T is quite impossible to see What kind of use the prig can be; By what inscrutable design, Or by what accident divine, Or what impenetrable jest He was evolved, can ne’er be guessed.