What feature has repulsed the serious set?
What error in the bestial birth or breeding,
To put their tender fancies on the fret?
One thing is plain—it is not in the feeding!
Some stiffish people think that smoking joints
Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday—
But then the beasts are pious on these points,
For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
What change comes o'er the spirit of the place,
As if transmuted by some spell organic?
Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race?
The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic?
Do Irish minds—(whose theory allows
That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)—
Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows
Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?
There are some moody Fellows, not a few,
Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias,
Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,
And think when they are dismal they are pious:
Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun
Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday?—
Or perhaps some animal, no serious one,
Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
What dire offense have serious Fellows found
To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney?
Were charitable boxes handed round,
And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea?
Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to molt
The feathers in her head—at least till Monday;
Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt
A tract presented to be read on Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?
At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?
Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged clothing?
Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?
On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he preyed extempore as well
As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
To me it seems that in the oddest way
(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious—
As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk
About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,
As any harmless man to take a walk,
If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,
As surely as I am a Christian scion,
I cannot think it is a mortal sin—
(Unless he's loose)—to look upon a lion.
I really think that one may go, perchance,
To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday—
(That is, provided that he did not dance)—
Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
In spite of all the fanatic compiles,
I can not think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor—
It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,
That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,
The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?
The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven?
The tender Love-Bird—or the filial Stork?
The punctual Crane—the providential Raven?
The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?
Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday
That feathered marvel with a human tongue,
Because she does not preach upon a Sunday—
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast!
The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd—
That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,
The horned Rhinoceros—the spotted Leopard—
The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand
Are surely sights for better days than Monday—
The Elephant, although he wears no band,
Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?—
But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?