CUPID'S MAMMA.
HE waits with Cupid at the
wing—
The transformation is ap-
proaching;—
She gives the god, poor little
thing,
Some final hints by way of
"coaching."
For soon the merry motley
clown—
Most purely practical of
jokers—
Will bring the pit and gallery
down
With petty larcenies and
pokers.
No Venus—anything but that.
Could Fancy, howsoever flighty,
Transform the mother of this brat
To aught resembling Aphrodite?
No Venus, but the daily sport
Of common cares and vulgar trials;
No monarch of a Paphian court—
Her court is in the Seven Dials.
She taught young Love to play the part—
To bend the bow and aim the arrows
Those arms will never pierce a heart.
Unless it be a Cockney sparrow's.
Alas, the Truthful never wooed
The Beautiful to fashion Cupid:
But, in some sympathetic mood,
Perhaps the Ugly wooed the Stupid.
Is Cupid nervous? Not a bit;
Love seeks no mortal approbation.
Stalls, boxes, gallery, and pit
May hiss or cheer the transformation.
Mamma looks anxious and afraid
While parting with her young beginner,
Whose little wages, weekly paid,
Will pay her for a weekly dinner.