"By the way--Oh! Miss Dibsley, I had almost forgot--you have never seen the sweet copy of verses that our dear Euphemius has been inditing on this curious Chinese business. Euphemius, my darling, show them to Miss Dibsley. He actually pictures the Celestial Emperor sitting on a teapot!--a teapot for a throne; how imaginative! I assure _you_--but I shouldn't like it to go farther--that our friend in the Potteries thinks them quite remarkable, and says that the youth's knowledge of _facts_ is surprising: Euphemius is hardly seventeen yet--quite a child! What an age of genius this is! Euphemius, my dear, will you read?--Martha, you can take away.--Beg pardon, any more tea, Miss Dibsley? No!--not half a cup?--Take away, Martha. Euphemius, dear, proceed with your poetry."--"Hadn't I better read it for myself?" said Miss Dibsley. "No, I thank you," returned Euphemius; "you won't find out the jokes so well as I shall, 'cause I haven't put 'em all in italics." (_Euphemius reads._) The world rests on a tortoise, And a teapot rests on that, And on the teapot sitteth Earth's Emperor fierce and fat. He's brother to ten Comets, And a dozen Suns and Moons; The ocean is his slop-basin, And his subjects are all spoons. Forty cups of tea he taketh Every minute of the day, And he's owner of a milk-walk, Called by men the milky way. But for all his mighty emperorship, I wouldn't be in _his_ shoes, For there's steam enough about him To stew the chops he issues. If stronger he his tea makes, 'Twill blow out half his teeth; For hot's the water under him, And there's gunpowder beneath. Yet danger can't convince him, Though it grow more strong and hot; Of "green" he's proved a sample; He's "a spoonful for the pot." "_Tu doces_" means "thou tea-chest," But to teach old China's tribe, We must read it thus, "Two doses," Such as Nelson would prescribe. As sure as that's a teapot, He'll go upward with a whiz, And be, though more Celestial, Less Majestic than he is. As sure as that same crockery Community are crackt, Their spouts, and lids, and handles, Will go smash, and that's a fact. Though _t_ be first and last of it, In them there'll be no _trust_, Till "with your leaf, or by your leaf," Death turns them to "fine dust." How puzzled be their crania Beneath our cannon's roar! They never tasted anything But "cannister" before. They'll wonder what it's all about, When shot yet more abounds; They look into their teacups, And can't understand the grounds. While they fancy that there's nothing With their own tea on a par, I wonder what they think of The British T-a-r.