The Catastrophe

(Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea.) TENNYSON.

Shake, shake, shake, In thy shoes, O unfortunate Boy, For you've somehow managed to break Your Mistress's best Teapoy!

O well for the lazy cook, Who sleeps in the kitchen all day; O well for the horse-keeper's wife, Who snores, with her head in the hay.

And the laden bandies jog on, With their bullocks sweating in pairs— But O, who will mend the teapoy again, Or pay for the needful repairs?

Quake, quake, quake! O Boy, thy howls shall be vain, For each tender part of thy body shall smart To-night, from thy Master's cane!