VICTUALS AND DRINK.
"There once was a woman,
And what do you think?
She lived upon nothing
But victuals and drink.
Victuals and drink
"Were the chief of her diet,
And yet this poor woman
Scarce ever was quiet."
And were you so foolish
As really to think
That all she could want
Was her victuals and drink?
And that while she was furnished
With that sort of diet,
Her feeling and fancy
Would starve, and be quiet?
Mother Goose knew far better;
But thought it sufficient
To give a mere hint
That the fare was deficient;
For I do not believe
She could ever have meant
To imply there was reason
For being content.
Yet the mass of mankind
Is uncommonly slow
To acknowledge the fact
It behooves them to know;
Or to learn that a woman
Is not like a mouse,
Needing nothing but cheese,
And the walls of a house.
But just take a man,—
Shut him up for a day;
Get his hat and his cane,—
Put them snugly away;
Give him stockings to mend,
And three sumptuous meals;—
And then ask him, at night,
If you dare, how he feels!
Do you think he will quietly
Stick to the stocking,
While you read the news,
And "don't care about talking?"
O, many a woman
Goes starving, I ween,
Who lives in a palace,
And fares like a queen;
Till the famishing heart,
And the feverish brain,
Have spelled to life's end
The long lesson of pain.
Yet, stay! To my mind
An uneasy suggestion
Comes up, that there may be
Two sides to the question.
That, while here and there proving
Inflicted privation,
The verdict must often be
"Wilful starvation."
Since there are men and women
Would force one to think
They choose to live only
On victuals and drink.
O restless, and craving,
Unsatisfied hearts,
Whence never the vulture
Of hunger departs!
How long on the husks
Of your life will ye feed,
Ignoring the soul,
And her famishing need?
Bethink you, when lulled
In your shallow content,
'Twas to Lazarus only
The angels were sent;
And 't is he to whose lips
But earth's ashes are given,
For whom the full banquet
Is gathered in heaven!
"There was an old woman
Tossed up in a blanket,
Seventeen times as high as the moon;
What she did there
I cannot tell you,
But in her hand she carried a broom.
Old woman, old woman,
Old woman, said I,
O whither, O whither, O whither so high?
To sweep the cobwebs
Off the sky,
And I 'll be back again, by and by."
Mind you, she wore no wings,
That she might truly soar; no time was lost
In growing such unnecessary things;
But blindly, in a blanket, she was tost!
Spasmodically, too!
'T was not enough that she should reach
the moon;
But seventeen times the distance she must
do,
Lest, peradventure, she get back too
soon.
That emblematic broom!
Besom of mad Reform, uplifted high,
That, to reach cobwebs, would precipitate
doom,
And sweep down thunderbolts from out
the sky!
Doubtless, no rubbish lay
About her door,—no work was there to
do,—
That through the astonished aisles of Night
and Day,
She took her valorous flight in quest of
new!
Lo! at her little broom
The great stars laugh, as on their wheels
of fire
They go, dispersing the eternal gloom,
And shake Time's dust from off each
blazing tire!
"Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating curds and whey:
There came a black spider,
And sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away,"
To all mortal blisses,
From comfits to kisses,
There's sure to be something by way of
alloy;
Each new expectation
Brings fresh aggravation,
And a doubtful amalgam's the best of our
You may sit on your tuffet;
Yes,—cushion and stuff it;
And provide what you please, if you don't
fancy whey;
But before you can eat it,
There 'll be—I repeat it—
Some sort of black spider to come in the
way.