THE POOR VICTIM!

Only fancy if the Earth were flat— As most of those who live upon it are— And you went too near the edge of it, and toppled from the ledge of it, And landed on a distant star! Only fancy, if you fell upon your feet, And recovered pretty quickly from the jar, And you understood the lingo which the people speak and sing, oh, Who dwell upon a distant star! Only fancy, only fancy, what a lot of things there are Very likely to be met with on a distant star.

A goodish many things would prove Not exactly quite the same as here, I guess; P'raps the ladies all are pretty, and the men all smart and witty, And marriage an unqualified success. P'raps, like Washington, they cannot tell a lie, And gossip is excluded from their talk; P'raps with them a thing of course is that beef isn't made of horses, And the milkmen haven't even heard of chalk! Only fancy, &c.

Perhaps they've no occasion for police, Though they may keep just a few to spoon the cooks; If they do, no doubt they're wary whom they make Home Secretary, And the Chief Commissioner's chosen for his looks. Very likely, if they ever play a farce, It contains a pretty moral for the young, And perhaps their panorama has a mission, and their drama To the tune of the Old Hundredth's "said or sung." Only fancy, &c.

Very likely they have guns that will not burst, And machinery that won't get out of gear; P'raps they've even ammunition in respectable condition, And vessels that are guaranteed to steer. And it's possible they have Vestries who refrain From swearing at each other when they meet; And, though this isn't probable, they may have Boards "unjobable," And Contractors who will neither bribe nor cheat. Only fancy, &c.

A Parliament perhaps they may require, But its Members very likely don't obstruct, And each Government proposition just delights the Opposition, And anyone who makes a noise is "chucked." Very possibly they do not care for speech, But if indeed they've got a Grand Old Man In whom the fancy lingers, why, he talks upon his fingers, And they answer on the self-same plan! Only fancy, &c.

Come into the garden, Maud, Why has not the grass been mown? Come into the garden, Maud, Those seeds have never been sown; I fear you've been taking your walks abroad— You blush like a rose full-blown. When the early snail first moves, Before the sun is on high, Beginning to gnaw the leaves he loves On the beds, you should always try To pick him off with your garden gloves, And stamp on him—he must die. You can't touch snails? Let that pass, I will smash each one in his shell; But when it rains you can roll the grass, When dry can water it well. You say you can't wet your boots—alas!— Nor work when it's warm, ma belle? And yet your wages you claim; I should like to know what you do. In truth I can't bear to blame Such a sweet pretty girl as you; So stop as my gardener all the same— I'll be master and workman too. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Rough work should never be done By delicate hands as white as pearls, You only began for fun; So sit, with your parasol over your curls, Whilst I dig like mad in the sun.

He's hopeless of heaven, he's too bad for ——, (So say Unionist bards, and they ought to know well,) He is Judas-cum-Cain with a soupçon of Oates, An imperious despot, who grovels for votes; A mean truckling tyrant, an autocrat slave; A Knave who plays King, and a King who plays Knave. A haughty Commander, the tool of his troops, A swayer of "items," nose-led by his dupes; A Dog-despot, wagged by the tip of his tail, A Conspirator potent, whose plot's bound to fail; The land's greatest danger, because such a dolt; As ruler a scourge, because breeding revolt; As political guide ever banefully strong, Because the majority sees he is wrong. A prolix Polonius who proves his senility By taking the shine out of youth and ability: A veteran lagging superfluous, whose age Puts him "out of it" so, that he fills the whole stage: So old that his age gives him every claim, Save to decent respect, which, of course, is a shame, And absurd "fetish-worship." As Lucifer proud And imperious, yet supple of knee to the crowd; A Coriolanus who plays the Jack Cade; A coward of nothing and no one afraid; A blundering batsman whom none can bowl out; A craven who staggers opponents most stout; A traitor who gives his whole life to the State, Whose zeal proves his spite, and his service his hate. A truckler to treason and trickster for place, Whose stubbornness oft throws him out of the race; A lover of power and public applause, Who dares to oppose the most popular cause. A talkative sophist who will not explain; A bad-tempered man, ever bland and urbane: A casuist no one can half understand, But whose sinister purpose is plain as your hand; A vituperative and venomous foe, Whose speeches with calm magnanimity glow. In short, an old dolt, who inflicts dire defeat On the smartest young foes he can manage to meet; A powerless provoker of dreadful disasters, A master of slaves whose mere slaves are his masters; A voluble sphinx, and a simple chimæra The Age's conundrum, the crux of his æra! Mem.: If you can't give a guess at the theme of these rhymes, Why, peruse all the papers, and move with the times!