EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES.
["The Bank Return shows considerable additions to the reserve and the stock of bullion."—"Times," on "Money Market."]
Richer Old Lady you'll not meet,
Than this one, of Threadneedle Street.
Nicer Old Lady none, nor neater,
But, like the boy in Struwwelpeter,
That whilom chubby, ruddy lad,
The dear old dame looks sour and sad;
Nay, long time hath she seemed dejected,
And her once fancied fare rejected.
She screams out—"Take the gold away!
Oh, take the nasty stuff away!
I won't have any gold to-day."
This Dame, like Danaë of old
Has long been wooed in showers of gold,
By Jupiters of high finance;
But, sick of that cold sustenance,
Or surfeited, or cross, or ill,
The dear Old Lady cries out still—
"Not any gold for me, I say!
Oh, take the nasty stuff away!!
I won't have any more to-day!!!"
And on my word it is small wonder,
For in her spacious house, and under,
Of bullion she hath boundless store,
And scarcely can find room for more.
Filled every pocket, purse, safe, coffer,
And still the crowds crush round and offer
Their useless, troublesome deposits,
To cram her cupboards, choke her closets.
What marvel then that she should say—
"Oh, take the nasty stuff away!
I won't have any more to-day!!"
The poor Old Lady once felt pride as
A sort of modern Mrs. Midas;
For all she touches turns to gold
Within her all-embracing hold;
Gold solid as the golden leg
Of opulent Miss Kilmansegge,
But, like that lady, poor-rich, luckless,
She values now the yellow muck less,
Though once scraped up with assiduity,
Because of its sheer superfluity.
It blocks her way, it checks the breath of her;
She dreads lest it should be the death of her.
With bullion she could build a Babel,
So screams, as loud as she is able,—
"Not any more, good friends, I say!
For goodness gracious go away!!
I won't take any more to day!!!"
They beg, they pray, they strive to wheedle
The Old Lady of the Street Threadneedle.
The cry is still they come! they come!
Men worth a "million" or a "plum,"
The "goblin," or the "merry monk";
Constantly chinketh, chink-chank-chunk!
In "Gladstone" or in canvas bag;
But sourly she doth eye the "swag,"
Peevishly gathers round her skirt,
As though the gold were yellow dirt.
Crying, "Oh, get away now, do!
I'm really getting sick of you.
The proffered 'stuff' I must refuse;
I have far more than I can use.
I've no more need or wish for money
Than a surfeited bee for honey.
Money's a drug, a nauseous dose.
At cash the Market cocks its nose.
'Tis useless as the buried talent,
Or the half-crown to a poor pal lent;
As gilded oats to hungry nag.
Away with bulging purse and bag!
They are a bother and a pest.
I will not store, I can't invest.
With your 'old stocking' be content,
I can't afford you One per Cent.
Bullion's a burden and a bore.
I cannot do with any more!
Not any more for me, I say
Oh, take the nasty stuff away
I won't have any gold to-day!!!"
EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES.
The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. "Go away! Go away with your nasty Money! I can't do with any more of it!"
ON THE SAFE SIDE.
Brown. "By George, Jones, that's a handsome Umbrella! Where did you get it?"
Jones. "I decline to answer until I've consulted my Lawyer!"