Foibles of fancy and rhymes of the times . tore his hide. 206 FOIBLES OF FANCY AND He puUd his mane, he twis his tail, He filld his eyes wid sanTill dat ole lion got so weak Dat he cud barly stan ;But still de eagle kep his lick Nor seemed de least he was boun dat beast ter lick An lay him in de shade. But by an by de sponge went up, Dat lion tuckd his tail,An crossd de broad Atlantic sea His losses ter eagle bold den spread his wing An soard erway on highTer roost ermid de circlin stars An guard us wid his eye. An since de early dawn ob time, Wen de sky its robes unfurl
Foibles of fancy and rhymes of the times . tore his hide. 206 FOIBLES OF FANCY AND He puUd his mane, he twis his tail, He filld his eyes wid sanTill dat ole lion got so weak Dat he cud barly stan ;But still de eagle kep his lick Nor seemed de least he was boun dat beast ter lick An lay him in de shade. But by an by de sponge went up, Dat lion tuckd his tail,An crossd de broad Atlantic sea His losses ter eagle bold den spread his wing An soard erway on highTer roost ermid de circlin stars An guard us wid his eye. An since de early dawn ob time, Wen de sky its robes de great quire ob Heabenly stars Sung er welcom ter de world;Since de day-god in his splendor Fust lookd down fum on high,Dere has neber been er casion Like dat Fourth day ob July. Er word now in conckision. Tor yer good white folks out derc— Ef eny ob yer has er dimeDat yer kin kindly spare, RHYMES OF THE TIMES. 207 Er ef yer chance ter hab at homeSum good ole cast off close, Plese member yer ole culled fren,Yer hones Uncle 208 FOIBLES OF FANCY AND A PLEA TO MAYOR LANE. Please, Mister Lane, do hear my plea And grant alleviation,Im almost dead, my nerves unstrung,. My souls in desperation ;Ive got the spancue and jimjams, My brain is worn to piecesBy that infernal hurdy-gurdy Whose grinding never ceases. From early morn till late at night That cruel fiends persistenceIn grinding doleful measures out, Makes life unworth cannot think, I cannot work, I scarce can get my breath ;Do dynamite the blasted thing Before it proves my death. Yes, Mister Mayor, heed my woe And banish, by your orders,That curse-provoking, damned machine. Beyond earths outer borders,Dont let it drive me on to drink To drown my wild despair,J^ut choke it off and smash its lungs; Oh, hear and grant my prayer. RHYMES OF THE TIMES. 2O9 TRUTHFUL BOLERS NARROW ESCAPE. You may talk of Georgia cyclones, Of Alerbamer rains—Bout yer South Carliny earthquakes, Or Georgy harricanes;But its on
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