Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life Assurance is a dream, And that while the public slumbers, Figures are not what they seem! Really, I am quite in earnest! So would you be. Here's a goal! Come let's have enquiry sternest. It's too bad, upon my soul. Here's a set of fellows borrow Money that they can't repay, Then buy up, till each to-morrow Finds them deeper than to-day. Thus my claim they'll fail in meeting, Though they've taken all I gave! They, not muffled drums, want beating Soundly till they look quite grave. Talk of board rooms' tittle tattle! Stuff! I have insured my life. I'm not dumb, like driven cattle! And I'll make a precious strife! Trust the Future? Come, that's pleasant! Wait until I'm buried--dead? No, I'll make a row at present. On official toes I'll tread! And directors think to blind us! Humbug us just for a time. Till we go to leave behind us Nothing? Why, the thing's sublime! Nothing! Do they think another Will insure, like me, in vain! No! the outcry they'll not smother, Nor catch shipwrecked dupes again! Let us, then, be up and doing, Never mind what be our fate, Each director still pursuing, Shouting out "Investigate!" From _The Tomahawk_, September 11, 1869. * * * * * THE PSALM OF FICTION. Tell us not in mournful "numbers" Life is all a ghastly dream! Such as those we have in slumbers When the nightmare makes us scream. Life is dark enough in earnest Without bringing in the gaol, Only readers of the sternest Like their heroines out on bail. Not to swindle, or to borrow Is the reputable way; Not to marry, and to-morrow Kill your bride, and run away. Arson's wrong, and poisoning dreary, And our hearts, though pretty brave Now and then get rather weary Of the gallows, and the grave. In the great domestic battle, In the matrimonial strife, Be not like those Mormon "Cattle," Give your hero but one wife. _Wives and Daughters_ should remind you There are women without crime; Draw them and you'll leave behind you Fictions that may weather time. Fictions free from that Inspector, Who is sent by Richard Mayne, And finds footmarks that affect a Solemn butler in the lane. Let us, then, have no more trials, No more tampering with wills, Leave the poisons in the phials And the money in the tills. * * * * * MISS M. TO MR. GREEN. _A Mournful Ditty._ Tell me not that I am pretty-- Really don't, now, Mr. Green; I'm the last to think it's witty Not to name things as they seem.