Moral

Ye democrats, who plan and plot Schemes to decapitate your betters, Remember that a bath is not The proper place for writing letters; Nor one which Providence intends For interviews with lady-friends.

Ananias

When Golf was in its childhood still, And not the sport that now it is; When no-one knew of Bunker Hill, Or spoke of Boston tee-parties; One man there was who played the game, And Ananias was his name.

But little else of him we know, Save that his grasp of facts was slack, And yet, as circumstances show, He was a golfomaniac, And thus biographers relate The story of his tragic fate:--

He occupied his final scene, (In golfing parlance so 'tis said), In "practising upon the green," And, after a "bad lie," "lay dead;" Then came Sapphira,--she, poor soul, After a worse "lie," "halved the hole."

Nero

The portrait that I seek to paint Is of no ordinary hero, No customary plaster saint,-- For nothing of the sort was Nero. (He was an Emperor, but then He had his faults like other men.)

And first, (a foolish thing to do), He turned his hand to matricide, And straight his agéd mother slew, The poor old lady promptly died! ('Tis surely wrong to kill one's mother, Since one can hardly get another.)

He was a hearty feeder too, And onto his digestion thrust All kinds of fatty foods, and grew Robust--with accent on the Bust. ("Sweets are"--I quote from memory-- "The Uses of Obesity!")

He married twice; two ladies fair Agreed in turn to be his wife, To board his slender barque and share His fate upon the stream of Life. (Forgive me if I mention this As being true Canoebial bliss!)

His talent on the violin He was for ever proud of showing; The tone that he produced was thin, Nor could one loudly praise his "bowing;" But persons whom he played before Were almost sure to ask for more.

For he decreed that any who Did not encore him or applaud, Should be beheaded, cut in two, Hanged, flayed alive, and sent abroad. (So it was natural that they Who "came to cough remained to pray.")

He felt no sympathy for those Who had not lots to drink and eat, Who wore unfashionable clothes, And strove to make the two ends meet; (They drew no tears, "the short and sim- Ple flannels of the Poor," from him.)

To Christians he was far from kind, They met with his disapprobation; The choicest tortures he designed For folks of their denomination. (And all Historians insist That he was no philanthropist.)

To lamp-posts he would oft attach A Jew, immersed in paraffine, Apply a patent safety match, And smile as he surveyed the scene. ('Twas possible in Rome at night To read a book by Israelight.)

And when occurred the famous fire, Of which some say he was the starter, He roused the Corporation's ire By playing Braga's "Serenata"; ('Tis said that, when he changed to Handel, The "play was hardly worth the scandal."[A])

He crowned his long career at last By one supreme and final action, Which, after such a lurid past, Gave universal satisfaction; And not one poor relation cried When he committed suicide.

Aftword

The feast is ended! (As we've seen.) 'Tis time the vacant board to quit. By "vacant bored" I do not mean My host of readers, not a bit! For they, the mentally élite, Are stimulated and replete.

The fare that I provide is light, But don't, I pray, look down upon it! Such verse is just as hard to write As any sentimental sonnet. It looks a simple task, maybe,-- Well--try your hand at it, and see!

Don't fancy too that I dispense With study, or eschew research; Sufficient books of reference I have, to fill the highest church. I've no dislike of work, I swear,-- It's doing it that I can't bear!

Abuse or praise me, as you choose, There is no limit to my patience; My verse the London Daily News Once styled "Mephitic exhalations"! I lived that down,--(don't ask me how,)-- And nothing really hurts me now.

For while my stricken soul survived, With wounded pride and dulled ambition, My humble book of verses thrived And quite outgrew the old edition! So now I have exhaled some more,-- Mephitically, as before!

Postlude

The book is finished! With a sigh, My pen upon the desk I lay; The weary task is o'er, and I Am off upon a holiday, To Paris, lovely Paris, where I have a little ventr'-à-terre.[B]

And tho' my verses may be weak, And call for your severest strictures, The illustrations are unique,-- I really never saw such pictures! (At times, in my unthinking way, I almost hope I never may.)