THE KANGAROOS.

A FABLE.

A PAIR of married kangaroos
(The case is oft a human one too)
Were greatly puzzled once to choose
A trade to put their eldest son to:
A little brisk and busy chap,

As all the little K.'s just then are About some two months off the lap,—

They 're not so long in arms as men are.

A twist in each parental muzzle

Betrayed the hardship of the puzzle —
So much the flavor of life's cup
Is framed by early wrong or right,
And Kangaroos we know are quite

Dependent on their "rearing up."
The question, with its ins and outs,
Was intricate and full of doubts;

And yet they had no squeamish carings For trades unfit or fit for gentry, Such notion never had an entry, For they had no armorial bearings. Howbeit they're not the last on earth That might indulge in pride of birth;

Whoe'er has seen their infant young
Bob in and out their mother's pokes,

Would own, with very ready tongue,
They are not born like common folks
Well, thus the serious subject stood,
It kept the old pair watchful nightly,
Debating for young hopeful's good,
That he might earn his livelihood,

And go through life (like them) uprightly.

Arms would not do at all; no, marry,
In that line all his race miscarry ;
And agriculture was not proper,
Unless they meant the lad to tarry
Forever as a mere clod-hopper.
He was not well cut out for preaching,
At least in any striking style:
And as for being mercantile

He was not formed for over-reaching.

The law why there still fate ill-starred him,

And plainly from the bar debarred him :

A doctor

who would ever fee him?

In music he could scarce engage,
And as for going on the stage

In tragic socks I think I see him!

He would not make a rigging-mounter;
A haberdasher had some merit,

But there the counter still ran counter,

For just suppose

A lady chose

To ask him for a yard of ferret !

A gardener digging up his beds,

The puzzled parents shook their heads. "A tailor would not do because

They paused and glanced upon his paws.

Some parish post,- though fate should place it
Before him, how could he embrace it?
In short, each anxious Kangaroo

Discussed the matter through and through ;
By day they seemed to get no nearer,
'Twas posing quite -

And in the night

Of course they saw their way no clearer!
At last thus musing on their knees
Or hinder elbows if you please

It came

no thought was ever brighter!

In weighing every why and whether,

They jumped upon it both together "Let's make the imp a short-hand writer!"

MORAL.

I wish all human parents so

Would argue what their sons are fit for; Some would-be critics that I know

Would be in trades they have more wit for.

ace it

I.

ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER

O LUD! O Lud! O Lud!

I mean of course that venerable town,
Mentioned in stories of renown,

Built formerly of mud;

O Lud, I say, why didst thou e'er
Invent the office of a Mayor,
An office that no useful purpose crowns,
But to set Aldermen against each other,
That should be Brother unto Brother,—
Sisters at least, by virtue of their gowns?

But still, if one must have a Mayor
To fill the Civic chair,

O Lud, I say,

Was there no better day

To fix on, than November Ninth so shivery
And dull for showing off the Livery's livery?
Dimming, alas!

The Brazier's brass,

Soiling the Embroiderers and all the Saddlers,
Sopping the Furriers,

Draggling the Curriers,

And making Merchant Tailors dirty paddlers;

અમદાવા

Drenching the Skinners' Company to the skin, Making the crusty Vintner chiller,

And turning the Distiller

To cold without instead of warm within ;
Spoiling the bran-new beavers

Of Wax-chandlers and Weavers,

Plastering the Plasterers and spotting
Mercers,

Hearty November cursers

And showing Cordwainers and dapper Dra-
pers

Sadly in want of brushes and of scrapers;
Making the Grocer's company not fit

For company a bit;

Dying the Dyers with a dingy flood,
Daubing incorporated Bakers,

And leading the Patten-makers,
Over their very pattens in the mud,——
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud!

"This is a sorry sight,"

To quote Macbeth but oh, it grieves me quite, To see your Wives and Daughters in their

Sitting at open windows catching rheums,
Not "Angels ever bright and fair,"
But angels ever brown and sallow,

With eyes

you cannot see above one pair, For city clouds of black and yellow