1. MULEDOM.
Thy father, as is known to all,
A donkey was, beyond denial;
Thy mother on the other hand
A noble brood-mare proved on trial.
Thy mulish nature, worthy friend,
Though little liked, a thing of course is;
Yet thou canst say, with perfect truth,
That thou belongest to the horses.
Thou spring’st from proud Bucephalus;
Thy fathers were with the invaders
Who to the Holy Sepulchre
Of old time went, the famed Crusaders.
Thou countest ’mongst thy relatives
The charger ridden by the glorious
Sir Godfrey of Bouillon the day
He took God’s town with arm victorious.
Thou canst aver that Bayard’s steed
Thy cousin was, and say (andante)
Thine aunt the knight Don Quixote bore,
The most heroic Rosinante.
But Sancho’s donkey thou’lt not own
As kin, he being much too lowly;
Thou’lt e’en disown the ass’s foal
That whilome bore the Saviour holy.
And thou art not obliged to stick
A long-ear surely in thy scutcheon;
Of thine own value be the judge,
And thou wilt never lay too much on.
2. THE SYMBOL OF MADNESS.
We’ll now begin to sing the song
Of a Number of much reputation,
Known by the name of Number Three:
To joy succeeds vexation.
Though sprung from an old Arabian stock,
In Christian estimation
Nothing in Europe higher stood
Than this Number of proud reputation.
A very pattern of modesty,
How great was her indignation
At finding the man in bed with the maid!
She gave them a sound castigation.
In summer her coffee at seven A.M.
She drank with much gratification,
In winter at nine, and slept all night
Without the least molestation.
But now ’tis time to alter our rhyme,
To-day is changed to to-morrow,
And, sad to say, poor Number Three
Must suffer pain and sorrow.
There came a cobbler who said: “The head
“Of Number Three at present
“Is like a small Seven that’s placed on the top
“Of the moon when she’s shaped like a crescent.
“The Seven the mystical number is
“Of the ancient Pythagoreans;
“The crescent Diana’s worship denotes,
“And also recals the Sabeans.
“The Three herself the famed Shibboleth is
“Of the senior bonze of Babel,
“Intriguing with whom she at length gave birth
“To the Holy Trinity’s fable.”
A tailor came next, with a smile on his face;
Poor Number Three, he insisted,
Was nought but a name, and nowhere else
Except upon paper existed.
When poor Three heard these cruel words,
Like a duck in a state of distraction
She waddled here and waddled there,
Lamenting with vehement action:
“I’m just as old as the sea and the wold,
“As the stars that in heaven are blinking;
“I’ve seen kingdoms ascend, and presently end,
“And nations rising and sinking.
“I’ve stood on the ceaselessly whirling loom
“Of time for many long ages;
“I’ve peep’d into Nature’s fashioning womb,
“Where everything rushes and rages.
“And nevertheless I withstood all assaults
“Of darkness and sensuality,
“And safely preserved my virgin charms,
“Despite their cruel brutality.
“What use is my virtue now? By the wise
“And the fools I am evil entreated;
“The world is wicked, and ne’er content
“Till every one is cheated.
“But cheer up, my heart! thou still hast left
“Thy faith and hope and charity,
“With excellent coffee and glasses of rum
“Above the reach of vulgarity.”
3. PRIDE.
O Countess Gudel of Gudelfeld town,
Because you are wealthy, you’re held in renown
With not less than four horses contented,
At court you are duly presented;
In carriage of gold you go lightly
To the castle, where waxlights gleam brightly;
Up the marble stairs rustle
Your clothes with their bustle,
And then at the top, on the landing
The servants in gay dresses standing
Shout: Madame la Comtesse de Gudelfeld!
Your fan in your hand, talking loudly,
Through the chamber you wander on proudly;
With diamonds gaily bedizen’d,
In pearls and Brussels lace prison’d,
Your snowy bosom with madness
Is heaving in uncontroll’d gladness.
What smiles, nods, polite interjections!
What curtsies and deep genuflexions!
The Duchess of Pavia
Calls you her cara mia;
The nobles and courtiers advancing
Invite you to join in the dancing;
And the heir to the crown (who’s thought witty)
Says loudly: How graceful and pretty
Are all the stern movements of Gudelfeld!
But if, poor creature, you money did lack,
The world would straightway show you its back;
The very lackeys with loathing
Would spit on your clothing;
’Stead of bows and civility,
Nought but vulgar scurrility;
The Duchess would cross herself rudely,
And the Crown Prince take snuff, and say shrewdly:
She smells of garlic—this Gudelfeld!