The World! Was jester ever in A viler than the present? Yet if it ugly be--as sin, It almost is--as pleasant! It is a merry world (_pro tem._) And some are gay, and therefore It pleases them--but some condemn The fun they do not care for. It is an ugly world. Offend Good people--how they wrangle! The manners that they never mend! The characters they mangle! They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod, And go to church on Sunday-- And many are afraid of God-- And more of _Mrs. Grundy_. The time for Pen and Sword was when "My ladye fayre," for pity Could tend her wounded knight, and then Grow tender at his ditty! Some ladies now make pretty songs,-- And some make pretty nurses:-- Some men are good for righting wrongs,-- And some for writing verses. I wish We better understood The tax that poets levy!-- I know the Muse is very _good_-- I think she's rather heavy: She now compounds for winning ways By morals of the sternest-- Methinks the lays of now-a-days Are painfully in earnest. When Wisdom halts, I humbly try To make the most of Folly: If Pallas be unwilling, I Prefer to flirt with Polly,-- To quit the goddess for the maid Seems low in lofty musers-- But Pallas is a haughty jade-- And beggars can't be choosers. I do not wish to see the slaves Of party, stirring passion, Or psalms quite superseding staves, Or piety "the fashion." I bless the Hearts where pity glows, Who, here together banded, Are holding out a hand to those That wait so empty-handed! A righteous Work!--My Masters, may A Jester by confession, Scarce noticed join, half sad, half gay, The close of your procession? The motley here seems out of place With graver robes to mingle, But if one tear bedews his face, Forgive the bells their jingle. THE OLD CRADLE. And this was your Cradle? why, surely, my Jenny, Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show You were a delightfully small Pic-a-ninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplexed with that newly-found fardel called Life. To hint at an infantine frailty is scandal; Let bygones be bygones--and somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, Your cheeks were so velvet--so rosy your toes. Ay, here is your Cradle, and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know. They guard the small nest you yourself did inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.