Then at once he took possession, and he told his ma to go,
And because she made objections, pushed her out into the snow;
She was taken to the workhouse, where her widowed heart soon broke,
For she couldn’t stand the skilly, and she turned against the toke.
Then this wretched new-born infant, knowing not a parent’s care,
Began to blue the property to which he was the heir.
Through keeping shady company, he went from bad to worse—
He was not the sort of baby that a decent girl could nurse.
At law and at morality that wicked baby mocked,
He was such a thorough villain that Society was shocked;
And it was not much astonished when, before completing three,
He had wrecked his constitution and had suffered from d.t.
At the age of four a bloated, shattered martyr to the gout,
He arsoned so incautiously the Office found him out.
To escape a prosecution he committed suicide,
And the world has been much better since that little darling died.
The Button.
(A TALE OF THE TUNNEL.)
HE Premier sat in the Premier’s chair,
And he said to his colleagues assembled there,
“The Cabinet meets, as you all are aware,
To discuss the momentous button.
The time for action has come at last,
The French in the tunnel are gathering fast;
Now is the time their plans to blast—
I am going to touch the button!”
He put out his finger to do the deed,
But a Minister cried, “We are not agreed
That the country stands in such desperate need
Of a touch of that awful button.
The tunnel’s a big commercial spec—
Just think of the property we shall wreck!
There are plenty of ways the foe to check—
Let’s try ’em before the button.”
And then there arose a big debate,
And the Cabinet sat till rather late
Before they could settle the final fate
Of Sir Edward Watkin’s button.
They argued con, and they argued pro,
Till a message came to let them know
The Commander-in-Chief was down below
In a fury about the button.
And while the statesmen were still in doubt
The panting duke (he was rather stout)
Rushed in, with his brolly blown inside out,
And he yelled, “You fools! the button!”
In vain did Sir Watkin weep and say—
“O, think of the widows and orphans, pray;
The finger of fate unless you stay,
Their shares won’t be worth a button.”