Though sprung from an old Arabian stock,
In Christian estimation
Nothing in Europe higher stood
Than this Number of proud reputation.
A very pattern of modesty,
How great was her indignation
At finding the man in bed with the maid!
She gave them a sound castigation.
In summer her coffee at seven A.M.
She drank with much gratification,
In winter at nine, and slept all night
Without the least molestation.
But now ’tis time to alter our rhyme,
To-day is changed to to-morrow,
And, sad to say, poor Number Three
Must suffer pain and sorrow.
There came a cobbler who said: “The head
“Of Number Three at present
“Is like a small Seven that’s placed on the top
“Of the moon when she’s shaped like a crescent.
“The Seven the mystical number is
“Of the ancient Pythagoreans;
“The crescent Diana’s worship denotes,
“And also recals the Sabeans.
“The Three herself the famed Shibboleth is
“Of the senior bonze of Babel,
“Intriguing with whom she at length gave birth
“To the Holy Trinity’s fable.”
A tailor came next, with a smile on his face;
Poor Number Three, he insisted,
Was nought but a name, and nowhere else
Except upon paper existed.
When poor Three heard these cruel words,
Like a duck in a state of distraction
She waddled here and waddled there,
Lamenting with vehement action:
“I’m just as old as the sea and the wold,
“As the stars that in heaven are blinking;
“I’ve seen kingdoms ascend, and presently end,
“And nations rising and sinking.