Of what his life had been; of weeks
All spent in having forty winks—
You know an oyster never speaks,
But lies awake in bed, and thinks.
He thought, with pardonable pride,
That he had never worked—a plan
Which showed, it cannot be denied,
That he was quite a gentleman.
He lived more calmly in his sea
Than any Bishop; never crossed
In any sort of wishes, he
Had never loved, and never lost.
No cruel maid had ever spurned
His heart, such grief no oyster knows;
Nor hatred ever in him burned
Against the rival whom she chose.
Yet, when considered, all appeared
Too softly calm, too free from strife;
He thought, and, sighing, stroked his beard,
"There does not seem much use in life."
By chance, upon this very day
A London sparrow, for a minute,
Was thinking somewhat in this way
Of life, and what the deuce was in it,
And how he fluttered up and down,
Like Berthas, Doras, Trunks, or Yankees—
His nest was far above the town,
Upon the buildings known as Hankey's.
He thought, with pardonable pride,
Unlike a pampered, gay canary,
He worked—it cannot be denied
That "Laborare est orare."
He worked with all his might and main,
Yet now he chirped with some misgiving,
"Shoot me if I know what I gain,
There does not seem much use in living."