THE AIR BALLOON.

IN LAUDEM BULLAE AERO-NAUTICAE.

They may talk as they will

Of their steam-engine skill,

But, as sure as the sun shines at noon,

Straps, boilers, and springs

Are a wagon to wings,

Compared with the air-balloon.

If you're troubled with taxes,

You cross the Araxes,

Or fly to the plains of Hairoun;

In the height of the summer,

Cool as a cucumber,

You sit in your air-balloon.

The ladies, poor souls!

Once sent sighs to the poles;

We may now send the sighers as soon:

Painted canvass and gas

Whisk away with the lass,

In the car of the air-balloon.

Our girls of fifteen

Will disdain Gretna Green,

The old coupler must soon cobble shoon;

With a wink to the captain,

The beauties are wrapt in

The car of the air-balloon.

Old fathers and mothers,

Grim uncles and brothers,

May hunt them from Janu'ry to June;

They are oft to the stars,

And in Venus or Mars

You may spy out their air-balloon

Your makers of rhyme

May at last grow sublime,

Inspired by a touch at the moon;

And lawyers may rise

For once to the skies,

In the car of the air-balloon.

Your ministers, soaring,

May shun all the boring

Of country and city baboon—

Or, like ministers' spouses,

Look down on both Houses—

From the car of the air-balloon.

The sweet six months' widow

Her weeds will abide, O,

No longer, nor cry "'Tis too soon!"

But range the skies over,

In search of a lover,

In the car of the air balloon.

If you wish for a singe-a

In Afric or India,

Or long for an Esquimaux' tune,

Or wish to go snacks

With the king of the blacks,—

Why,—call for your air-balloon.

If, on Teneriffe's Peak,

You'd wish for a steak,

Or dip in Vesuvius your spoon,

Or slip all the dog-days,

The rain-days, and fog-days,—

Go, call for your air-balloon.

Your doctors of physic

May banish the phthisic.

Your cook give you ice-creams in June—

If a dun's in the wind,

You may leave him behind,

And be off in your air-balloon.

On the top of the Andes,

Who's tortur'd with dandies?

On Potosi, who meets a buffoon?

But, for fear I'd get prosy,

I'll stop at Potosi,—

So, huzza for the air-balloon!

Monthly Magazine.