BARTLETT'S BABY.

Welcome little Stranger! You

Are the darling of the Zoo,

Bartlett's babe, the public pet.

Lucky, lucky Zoo to get,

At a cost scarce worth the mention,

Living proof beyond contention

Of—oh! well, of whatsoever

Savants sage and critics clever,

On their controversial mettle,

May—or maybe may not—settle.

Six-and-twenty years ago

(Buffers elderly may know)

Rose the great Gorilla feud;

Dr. Gray was rather rude,

Rather on Du Chaillu down,

And the shindy stirred the Town.

Owen, great on brains and bones,

Lectured it in learned tones;

Huxley to the battle rushed;

Mutually they "pished" and "tushed"

In that calm and courteous way

Savants have, when they're in fray.

Mr. Punch, with ample reason,

Called you "Lion of the Season,"

Great Gorilla. Now 'tis plain

The old fame revives again.

Happy Bartlett! Lucky Ape!

Fortune comes in curious shape.

You perchance, oh simian child!

Might have roamed the Afric wild,

Like a nigger unreclaimed.

Unobserved, unknown, unnamed,

Fame concerning you quite dumb,

Even your "colossal thumb,"

By the scribes who columns vamp us,

Undescribed; your "hippo-campus"

(Whatsoever that may be)

Not of notoriety.

Now!—Ah, infantine Gorilla,

Every small suburban villa

With your rising fame will ring;

All the sort of folk who bring

Buns unto the prisoned bear,

To your cage will come, and stare.

Buns? Oh, Bartlett,—master sage,

Autocrat of den and cage!—

Nothing will begrudge, I'm sure,

That may nourish, please, or cure

His prognathous little pet.

Half the luxuries you'll get

Would leave satiate and cloyed

Any hungry "Unemployed."

Cakes—and, if you like it, Ale—

Oh, Gorilla, will not fail;

Gunter's you may sack at will,

Or, if you prefer to fill

Otherwise your dainty maw

Than with sweeties and stick-jaw,

Like the indiscriminate bear,

You may choose your Bill of Fare.

Toys? Ah, bring them, baby, quick;

Will a monkey on a stick

Touch a sympathetic chord?

Well, let's hope you won't be bored,

Baby Ape, by Bartlett's love,

And the crowds who'll stare and shove;

Long for Afric wild but free,

And a station "up a tree,"

Watching, with prehensile thumb,

For—whatever food may come.