For that which we call folly here, Is wisdom in that favoured sphere; The wisdom we so highly prize Is blatant folly in their eyes. A boy, if he would push his way, Must learn some nonsense every day; And cut, to carry out this view, His wisdom teeth and wisdom too. Historians burn their midnight oils, Intent on giant-killers’ toils; And sages close their aged eyes To other sages’ lullabies. _Our_ magistrates, in duty bound, Commit all robbers who are found; But there the Beaks (so people said) Commit all robberies instead. _Our_ Judges, pure and wise in tone, Know crime from theory alone, And glean the motives of a thief From books and popular belief. But there, a Judge who wants to prime His mind with true ideas of crime, Derives them from the common sense Of practical experience. Policemen march all folks away Who practise virtue every day— Of course, I mean to say, you know, What we call virtue here below. For only scoundrels dare to do What we consider just and true, And only good men do, in fact, What we should think a dirty act. But strangest of these social twirls, The girls are boys—the boys are girls! The men are women, too—but then, _Per contra_, women all are men. To one who to tradition clings This seems an awkward state of things, But if to think it out you try, It doesn’t really signify. With them, as surely as can be, A sailor should be sick at sea, And not a passenger may sail Who cannot smoke right through a gale. A soldier (save by rarest luck) Is always shot for showing pluck (That is, if others can be found With pluck enough to fire a round). “How strange!” I said to one I saw; “You quite upset our every law. However can you get along So systematically wrong?” “Dear me!” my mad informant said, “Have you no eyes within your head? You sneer when you your hat should doff: Why, we begin where you leave off! “Your wisest men are very far Less learned than our babies are!” I mused awhile—and then, oh me! I framed this brilliant repartee: “Although your babes are wiser far Than our most valued sages are, Your sages, with their toys and cots, Are duller than our idiots!” But this remark, I grieve to state, Came just a little bit too late For as I framed it in my head, I woke and found myself in bed. Still I could wish that, ’stead of here, My lot were in that favoured sphere!— Where greatest fools bear off the bell I ought to do extremely well. THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN I OFTEN wonder whether you Think sometimes of that Bishop, who From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo Last summer twelvemonth came. Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bring Remembrance of the man I sing To-day, by simply mentioning That PETER was his name.