“She makes me perch upon a tree,
Rewarding me with ‘Sweety—nice!’
And threatens to exhibit me
With four or five performing mice.”
“Restrain my tears I wish I could”
(Said Baines), “I don’t know what to do.”
Said Captain Bagg, “You’re very good.”
“Oh, not at all,” said Baines Carew.
“She makes me fire a gun,” said Bagg;
“And, at a preconcerted word,
Climb up a ladder with a flag,
Like any street performing bird.
“She places sugar in my way—
In public places calls me ‘Sweet!’
She gives me groundsel every day,
And hard canary-seed to eat.”
“Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!”
(Said Baines). “Be good enough to stop.”
And senseless on the floor he fell,
With unpremeditated flop!
Said Captain Bagg, “Well, really I
Am grieved to think it pains you so.
I thank you for your sympathy;
But, hang it!—come—I say, you know!”
But Baines lay flat upon the floor,
Convulsed with sympathetic sob;—
The Captain toddled off next door,
And gave the case to Mr. Cobb.
THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.
In all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England’s broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With Thomas Winterbottom Hance.
The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too—
And this without unwholesome strain.