Songs of a pleb . o dog can be seen. Yet, in liquid coolness rolling,My master, at the oceans side, Bathing, driving, or a-strolling,Hears not the moaning of the tied. THE CLASSICAL FISHERMAN. Sometimes I take my Cicero To cast a Cataline,And as upon the bay we go, I bait her hook and mine. A Plat o cat is just the thing,A students mind to please— Wed Livy life of modern kingOn fishes such as these. Suppose we see a water-snake ? It wont ab Horace much—A Juvenal of course would quake, And faint at sight of such. SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 103 Iphigenie footing sureI climb a rugged cliff, Until my ladys
Songs of a pleb . o dog can be seen. Yet, in liquid coolness rolling,My master, at the oceans side, Bathing, driving, or a-strolling,Hears not the moaning of the tied. THE CLASSICAL FISHERMAN. Sometimes I take my Cicero To cast a Cataline,And as upon the bay we go, I bait her hook and mine. A Plat o cat is just the thing,A students mind to please— Wed Livy life of modern kingOn fishes such as these. Suppose we see a water-snake ? It wont ab Horace much—A Juvenal of course would quake, And faint at sight of such. SOJVGS OF A PLEB. 103 Iphigenie footing sureI climb a rugged cliff, Until my ladys looks, demure,Recall me to the skiff. And then Ill Caesar by the hand,And reascend the ledge— While on the very Virgil stand,She wont approach the edge. So fishing thus along the bay,A summers day we spend, I can not Tell you in this lay,What happy thoughts attend. And when the sun is sinking low, My lady has her wish,For having now a prize to show, Takes Homer string of fish. io4 SONGS OF A PLEB. NO Enough, enough ye men of lore ! Your wisdom (?) we salute;But cant exactly have you bore Our lives out with No Fruit !: Ye tell the havoc of the frostThat kills each tender shoot; And how the luckless farmer lostA years supply of fruit! O, sapient souls! O, please desist; For just one day, be mute,Dont let your truthful tongues insist Forever, Theres no fruit. SONGS OF A PLEB. 105 A tender corn we can endure, Perhaps, a pinching boot,But hang the doctor who would cure The prophet of the fruit! We could forgive a stubborn mule, A dead-beat or galoot;But heaven save us from the fool, Who always cries, No fruit! Chain-gangs would suffer dire disgrace From any such recruit,As he who goes from place to place With comments on the fruit. Well bear the man who peddles swill,The chimney-sweep, in soot; But Jove, invent a bolt to killThe prophet on the fruit. MONKEY-FACES. Darwin says; We sprang from the monkey. Now, thats rather spunky For a flunky— Monkey ! He need not try
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