Moral.

Tho' thumping tubs is easy work, With which no critic cares to quarrel, There may be charms about a Turk, Policemen even may be moral; And, tho' they never get found out, There are _some_ honest men about.

_Sir Thomas Lipton_

Of all the sportsmen now afloat Upon the waters of this planet, No better ever manned a boat, (Or paid another man to man it,) And won a kindly public's heart Like dear Sir Thomas Lipton, Bart.

Behind a counter, as a child, He woo'd Dame Fortune, fair but fickle, Until at last one day she smiled Upon his spices and his pickle; And all the world rejoiced to see Plain Thomas Lipton made "Sir Tea."

He won the trade, his name was made; In country-house or London gutter, All classes found his marmalade A perfect "substitute for butter." His jam in loudest praise was sung, His sauces were on ev'ry tongue.

He built a yacht; that is to say, He paid another man to build it; With all the patents of the day, Regardless of the cost, he filled it; And hired, which was expensive too, At least three Captains and a crew.

And, being properly brought up, A member of that sober nation, Which ever loves to raise the cup That cheers without inebriation, He saw an op'ning if he took His lifting pow'rs to Sandy Hook.

And there his hospitality Was always welcome to the masses; As on the good ship "Erin" he Provided luncheons for all classes; Where poets, publicans and peers, Retained his spoons as souvenirs.

But tho' each boat of his that sailed Was like the last one, only better, To lift the cup she always failed,-- Because the Yankees wouldn't let her. (A state of things which was not quite, What Englishmen would term, polite!)

His efforts were alas! in vain, He couldn't beat the pot defender, Again he tried, and yet again,-- He might as well have sailed a tender! At last he cried "I give it up! America can keep her cup!"

"For She, and she alone, has got The proper breed of modern Yachtsmen! If only _I_ had hired a lot Of Swedes, Norwegians and Scotsmen, I might have met, with calm defiance, The crew on which _She_ placed Reliance.

"But, as the matter stands, instead Of knowing what a well-fought fight is, I'm fêted, dined and banqueted, Until I get appendicitis! And probably shall end my life By marrying a Yankee wife!

"I felt it when the line was crost, I hold it true, whate'er befall, 'Tis better to have luffed and lost, Than never to have luffed at all! My shareholders must be content With such a good advertisement."

_Marat_

It is impossible to do Three diff'rent kinds of things at once; A fact that must be patent to The brain-pan of the dullest dunce; Yet Marat somehow never knew it, And died in an attempt to do it.

A Revolutionist was he; The People's Friend,--they called him so,-- And many such there used to be In France, a hundred years ago. (For further notice see Carlyle,-- If you can grapple with his style.)

His manners were so debonnair, He took a hip-bath ev'ry day; Would sit and write his letters there, In quite an unselfconscious way; And, if you wished to interview him, His housekeeper would take you to him.

Intent to right her country's wrong._"]

But Charlotte Corday came along, A Norman noble's nobler daughter, Intent to Right her Country's Wrong, And put an end to ceaseless slaughter; In Marat she descried a victim,-- So bought a knife and promptly pricked him!

Poor Marat, who (as was his wont) Was planning further Revolutions, The while he washed, exclaimed, "Oh, don't! "You're interrupting my ablutions! "I can't escape; it isn't fair! "A sponge is all I have to wear!"

But Charlotte firmly answered "Bosh!" (How could she so forget good breeding?) "While you sit there and calmly wash, The noblest hearts in France are bleeding!" Then jabbed him in those vital places Where ordinary men wear braces!

So perished Marat. In his way To prove a lesson, apt and scathing, From which young people of to-day May learn the dangers of mixed bathing, And shun the thankless operation Of sponging on a rich relation.