Volume 147 — COCOANUTS.

Sing me, I said, O Muse, and sound the trump For him not least among our noble tars Who first on tropic isle was made to jump By reason of a pericranial thump And prospect of a galaxy of stars. And there in green retreat by coral chained Beheld the vision of the fibrous nut, And drank the nectar that its shell contained, And knew the goal accomplished and disdained The nasty skin-wound on his occiput. He did not see the feathered palm-trees wave; He did not see the beckoning yams beneath; The turtle moaning for its soupy grave, The sound of oysters asking for a shave He heard not—he was back on Hampstead Heath. For him no more the ocean seemed to croon Its endless legend to the listless sands; He walked abroad upon an English noon, And "Ah!" he murmured, "what a heavenly boon To rehabilitate our cock-shy stands!" In vain Aunt Sarah with her spinster vows Entreats the Cockney sport to try his skill; Her charms are languishing, but nuts shall rouse To sterner combats and with damper brows For 'Arriet's kindly glances 'Erb and Bill. "And ah, the little ones! With how much glee Their eyes shall gaze upon the oily fruit! I shall behold them scamper o'er the lea, Their warm young lips, in part from ecstasy, In part from palatable nut-meat, mute." Such was the man, I said, and praised the worth Of all who make the cocoanut their ploy; And thought, "I too will have a round of mirth," And threw—and brought one hairy globe to earth. And, turning round, beheld a ragged boy. So smirched he was, so pitiful a lad That when I saw the teardrop in his eye I gave the nut to him. It made him glad; He took it proudly off to show his dad— His dad was the conductor of the shy.