But, Graybeards, curb your mad desires
To mount upon these whizzing flyers.
For there's the very strongest chance
You'd go home in an ambulance.
PIETY
With new, ill-fitting gloves,
With frocks as white as snow,
By two and two these little loves
To First Communion go.
I watch them as they pass,—
Somehow, I shrewdly guess
Each child thinks little of her mass
And much about her dress.
But you, dear Aged Saint,
Whose eyeballs upward roll,
I trust you have no worldly taint
Upon your gentle soul.
