A hundred gouty sons of Mars,
Who, gulping down their groans,
May from their beds command their troops
Through patent Telephones—
These fine old English Generals, &c.
From Finis.
The Fine Old Atom-Molecule.
(To be sung at all gatherings of advanced Sciolists and “Scientists”).
We’ll sing you a grand new song, evolved from a ’cute young pate,