Into the boat the breeze blows fair,
It blows across the deck;
It blows the little children's hair,—
They get it in the neck.
And in this picture you may see
The happy girls and boys,
So true to life,—but thankful be
You cannot hear the noise.
The great steam-whistle's fearful squeaks.
The band, ill-tuned and loud;
The babies with their screams and shrieks,
The bustle of the crowd.
Grown People, you'd prefer, afloat,
A private yacht, I'm sure;
Then shun the gay excursion boat
Unless you're very poor.
EVOLUTIONARY FAME
These merry children, I'll be bound
In careless pleasure ride around;
Unthinking as they onward go,
What pedigree their horses show.
But, Graybeard, you learned when a boy
About the Wooden Horse of Troy;
And you assume these steeds to be
The Trojan Sire's posterity.
Well, there you're wrong! you have forgot.
They're Flying Horses, are they not?
And, scions of a noble name,
From Pegasus descent they claim.