Volume 153 — A TROPICAL TRAGEDY.

On the tesselated slopes Of the Isle of Tapioca, Where the azure antelopes Haunt the valley of Avoca, Dwelt the maid Opoponax, Only child of Brex Koax, Far renowned in song and saga, Ruler of ten million blacks, Emperor of Larranaga. She could play the loud jamboon With a fervour corybantic; She could hurl the macaroon Far into the mid-Atlantic; More self-helpful than a SMILES, She could ride on crocodiles, Catch the fleetest flying-fishes; She could cook, like EUSTACE MILES, Wondrous vegetarian dishes. In the cool of eventide, Gracefully festooned with myrtle, In her sampan she would glide Forth to spear the snapping turtle; And her voice was blinding sweet, Piercing as the parrakeet, Fruity as old Manzanilla, With a soupçon of the bleat Of the African gorilla. Eligible swains in shoals, Victims to her fascination, Toasted her in flowing bowls Far beyond all computation; There was valorous Hupu, Xingalong and Timbalu, And the peerless Popocotl, Who had gained a triple blue For his prowess with the bottle. But Opoponax, whose mind Soared above her native tutors, Imperturbably declined All these brave and dusky suitors. Finally she hailed a tramp And, contriving to decamp To the shores of Patagonia, Finding them too chill and damp, Perished of acute pneumonia. In an even darker doom Tapioca's greatness ended, For her father to the tomb By swift leaps and bounds descended; Xingalong and Timbalu Both were slaughtered by Hupu, Who was slain by Popocotl, Who himself soon after slew With an empty whisky bottle. Every tale, we often hear, Ought to have a wholesome moral; And this truth is just as clear In the land of palm and coral; For this tragedy in tones Louder than a megaphone's Warns us that two things are risky, If you dwell in torrid zones— Change of climate, love of whisky.