‘You see, when an anchorite bows
To the yoke of intentional sin,
If the state of the country allows,
Homogeny always steps in—
“It’s a highly æsthetical bond,
As any mere ploughboy can tell—”
“Of course,” replied puzzled old Pond.
“I see,” said old Tommy Morell.
“Very good, then,” continued the lord;
“When it’s fooled to the top of its bent,
With a sweep of a Damocles sword
The web of intention is rent.
“That’s patent to all of us here,
As any mere schoolboy can tell.”
Pond answered, “Of course it’s quite clear”;
And so did that humbug Morell.
“Its tone’s esoteric in force—
I trust that I make myself clear?”
Morell only answered, “Of course,”
While Pond slowly muttered, “Hear, hear.”
“Volition—celestial prize,
Pellucid as porphyry cell—
Is based on a principle wise.”
“Quite so,” exclaimed Pond and Morell.
“From what I have said you will see
That I couldn’t wed either—in fine,
By Nature’s unchanging decree
Your daughters could never be mine.
“Go home to your pigs and your ricks,
My hands of the matter I’ve rinsed.”
So they take up their hats and their sticks,
And exeunt ambo, convinced.
THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE GOBLIN
O’er unreclaimed suburban clays
Some years ago were hobblin’
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
A fine low-comedy bogy.