V
'A ROLLING STONE GATHERS NO MOSS'
I never understood, I own,
What anybody (with a soul)
Could mean by offering a Stone
This needless warning not to Roll;
And what inducement there can be
To gather Moss, I fail to see.
I'd sooner gather anything,
Like primroses, or news perhaps,
Or even wool (when suffering
A momentary mental lapse);
But could forgo my share of moss,
Nor ever realise the loss.
'Tis a botanical disease,
And worthy of remark as such;
Lending a dignity to trees,
To ruins a romantic touch;
A timely adjunct, I've no doubt,
But not worth writing home about.
Of all the Stones I ever met,
In calm repose upon the ground,
I really never found one yet
With a desire to roll around;
Theirs is a stationary rôle.
(A joke,—and feeble on the whole.)
But, if I were a stone, I swear
I'd sooner move and view the World,
Than sit and grow the greenest hair
That ever Nature combed and curled.
I see no single saving grace
In being known as 'Mossyface'!
Instead, I might prove useful for
A weapon in the hand of Crime,
A paperweight, a milestone, or
A missile at Election-time;
In each capacity I could
Do quite incalculable good.
When well directed from the Pit,
I might promote a welcome death,
If fortunate enough to hit
Some budding Hamlet or Macbeth,
Who twice each day the playhouse fills,—
(For Further Notice see Small Bills).
At concerts, too, if you prefer,
I could prevent your growing deaf
By silencing the amateur
Before she reached that upper F;
Or else, in lieu of half-a-brick,
Restrain some local Kubelik.