A king of France upon a day,
With a fair lady of his court,
Was pleased at battledore to play
A very fashionable sport,
Into the bosom of this fair court dame,
Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame,
King Louis by odd mischance did knock
The shuttlecock,
Thrice happy rogue, upon the town of doves,
To nestle with the pretty little loves!
"Now, sire, pray take it out"—quoth she,
With an arch smile,—But what did he?
What? what to charming modesty belongs!
Obedient to her soft command,
He raised it—but not with his hand!
No, marveling reader, but the chimney tongs,
What a chaste thought in this good king!
How clever!
When shall we hear agen of such a thing?
Lord! never,
Nor were our princes to be prayed
To such an act by some fair maid,
I'll bet my life not one would mind it:
But handy, without more ado,
The youths would search the bosom through,
Although it took a day to find it!
THE EGGS.
FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.
Beyond the sunny Philippines
An island lies, whose name I do not know;
But that's of little consequence, if so
You understand that there they had no hens;
Till, by a happy chance, a traveler,
After a while, carried some poultry there.
Fast they increased as any one could wish;
Until fresh eggs became the common dish.
But all the natives ate them boiled—they say—
Because the stranger taught no other way.
At last the experiment by one was tried—
Sagacious man!—of having his eggs fried.
And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains,
His fruitful and inventive fancy gains!
Another, now, to have them baked devised—
Most happy thought I—and still another, spiced.
Who ever thought eggs were so delicate!
Next, some one gave his friends an omelette.
"Ah!" all exclaimed, "what an ingenious feat!"
But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts,
"I have it now—ye're all a pack of louts!—
With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed."
And the whole island thought the mode so good,
That they would so have cooked them to this day,
But that a stranger, wandering out that way,
Another dish the gaping natives taught,
And showed them eggs cooked a la Huguenot.
Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse,
But how shall I be able to rehearse
All of the new, delicious condiments
That luxury, from time to time, invents?
Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet,
And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat:
In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle
Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle,
All had their day—the last was still the best
But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed
The epicures: "Boast, ninnies, if you will,
These countless prodigies of gastric skill—
But blessings on the man WHO BROUGHT THE HENS!"
Beyond the sunny Philippines
Our crowd of modern authors need not go
New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.
THE ASS AND HIS MASTER. FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.
"On good and bad an equal value sets
The stupid mob. From me the worst it gets,
And never fails to praise," With vile pretense,
The scurrilous author thus his trash excused.
A poet shrewd, hearing the lame defense,
Indignant, thus exposed the argument abused.