THE Moper mopeth all the day;
He mopeth eke at night;
And never is the Moper gay,
But, grim and serious alway,
He is a sorry sight.
He liketh not the merry quip;
He hateth other men;
Escheweth he companionship,
Nor doth he e'er essay to trip
The light fantastic ten.
He seeketh not where murm'ring brooks
With rippling music flow.
He seeth naught in woman's looks,
And never readeth he in books
Except they tell of woe.
He e'en forgetteth that the sun,
Likewise God's balmy air,
Were made to gladden every one;
But he preferreth both to shun,
And taketh not his share.
He careth not for merry wights
Who drink Château Yquem,
But he would set the world to rights
By peopling it with eremites—
And very few of them.
When children sport with merry glee,
He thinketh they are wild,
And with them doth so disagree
It seemeth verily that he
Hath never been a child.
He thinketh that it is not right
Rare dishes to discuss,
And knoweth not the keen delight
Of one that hath an appetite
Yclepèd ravenous.
Of goodly raiment he hath none,
He calleth it "display;"
Wherefore the urchin poketh fun,
Because he looketh like that one
Unholy men call "jay."
And so we see this foolish man
All pleasant things doth scorn.
Good folk, pray God to change his plan,
And cheer the Moper if He can,
Or let no more be born! |