THE POET AND THE PRINTER.

Two little girls—I met them once, But quite forget their name, You’ll find them on page twenty-four, The printer is to blame, The picture ought to face the words, But there! it’s all the same. Two little girls, as I remarked, They left their snug abode, Because they thought their dinner must Taste better on the road, For forks and spoons and tablecloths, They really incommode. The ditch is far, far pleasanter Than any high-backed chair, I’m sure you will agree with them If you’ll observe them there; And when they’d finished, off they trudged All thro’ the summer air. At last they reached a bridge (the bridge You’ll see on twenty-five), And on the bridge those little girls Are hanging all alive; It’s marvellous how hanging Will make some children thrive!

They pondered which was best, to be Upon the bridge or under, And what they’d do suppose the bridge Were just to split asunder, But as they couldn’t settle that, They gave it up in wonder. Now, had these children dined at home, I think I may explain, We never should have seen them here At dinner in the lane: Unless when they had dined at home They’d dined out here again. And had the bridge been never built I think it must appear These children ne’er had found it, though They’d sought from year to year; So, how they could have hung on it, Is not exactly clear. And had I said, when I was asked, “I cannot sing in winter, I’ve run my throat against a door, And spiked it with a splinter;”— It would have put the artists out, And much annoyed the printer!