Volume 103 — THE MODERN MERCURY.

Behold that urchin, occupied In counting with an honest pride The marbles he has won! O tardy messenger of fate, Without distinction, small and great, Their telegrams, perforce, await Until your game is done. Perchance a philosophic strain Makes you regard as wholly vain Our human bliss and woes; What matters, whether State affairs, Or news of good, or weighty carts, Or tidings relative to shares Within your bag repose? Well, not by me will you be blamed; I like to see you not ashamed To dawdle for awhile; You furnish, by example sage, A moral for our busy age; And so, though others fume and rage, I watch you with a smile. He moves at length, and now we'll see Which way ... This telegram for me? Oh, worst of human crimes Is such delay!—it's monstrous quite! I'll forward a complaint to-night! Here, pen and paper—let me write A letter to the Times!