“INGENUAS DIDICISSE,” AND SO ON.
Urbane Foreigner. The—ah—contemplation of these—ah—relics of ancient art in the galleries of Europe, must be most int’r’sting to the—ah—educated American!
American Tourist. Wa’al, don’t seem to care much for these stone gals, somehow, stranger!
She sat and watched the waters roll,
And more impatient grew:—
At last she heard a horrid growl,—
“Oh, dear, what shall I do?”
“Speak, Pyramus! Where are you! Oh,
I hear that growl again!
How can you leave your Thisbe so?
You must—you must be slain!”
She’d hardly done, when trotting by,
A lion fresh from slaughter,
With black blood drenched, and savage eye,
Came from the woods to water.
Poor Thisbe shuddered at the sight,
Not relishing his “ivory”;
“Besides,—especially to-night—
It’s very hard to die—very!
“I’ll run and hide behind an oak,
My stars! just hear him swallow;
I’d better first throw off my cloak,
I wonder if he’ll follow!”
The lion on a hawthorn spray
Descried the mantle dangling,
She’d washed it out that very day,
He stopped—and did the mangling.