THE SCHOPENHAUER BALLADS.

The world is full of pretty things That everyone admires, And beauty, even though skin-deep, Is what the world desires. I'm handicapped I feel in life, For very obvious reasons, And yet my family always think I'm lovely in all seasons! My time is principally passed In caverns under water, My family are mostly sharks, Except a mermaid daughter; She sings her songs and combs her hair To tempt unwary whalers, And when we lure them down below It's bad for those poor sailors. I cannot say I like the sea, The bottom, top, or middle. It's always asking, night and day, The same confounded riddle: "Why was I made, except to drown The surplus population?" This is the sad sea wave's remark At every sea-side station. It makes me think about myself— Octopus too unsightly— Which are my arms and which my legs I never can tell rightly; I frighten children—old and young— Without the least intention, I saved a school from drowning once, But that I mustn't mention! I'm now at the Aquarium, A "side-show" much belauded, My antics, shown three times a day, Are very much applauded; The pay is not extremely large— A weekly bare subsistence; I take it meekly, for it breaks The boredom of existence.

I've really been extremely gay— I've done most things (I mean, in reason)— And, though "it is not always May," It has been, during my first season. At balls and parties I've had fun; I've listened to Home-Rule disputes; There's only one thing I've not done— Alas! I've not been down "the Chutes"! With screams and laughter from the height I saw men splash their nice new suits; It seemed to cause them great delight; But still—I have not shot the Chutes. I've been to all the good first nights, I've cried at Dusé, laughed at Penley, I have seen all the London sights, I've been to Sandown, Lord's, and Henley. At Ibsen I've serenely smiled, While suff'ring torture from new boots; Gladstone I've met, and Oscar Wilde— But ah! I've not been down the Chutes! Envoi. Prince, one regret I feel on leaving For country air, and flowers, and fruits— I quit gay London only grieving To think I have not shot the Chutes!