Deputations are serious and sober, Officials look palsied and sere-- They indulge in rhetoric small-beer (Instead of sound sparkling October) They're frightened about _you_, my dear-- (You, at present in two senses, dear!) They would scan the far future, and probe her, But can't--and it makes them feel queer; As you sit by the fire, looking sober, You make _them_ sit up and feel queer. IV. Your sisters, whose airs are unpleasant, Regard you with arrogant scorn-- With arrogant, uneasy scorn-- True, they have the pull, for the present, But fear you, the fair youngest born. They know that your glory is crescent, And, though each uplifteth her horn, Each feels that _her_ glory's senescent, In spite of their duplicate scorn. V. _Miss Telegraph_, lifting her finger, Says--"Sadly this minx I mistrust-- Her manners I strangely mistrust-- She'll distance us, dear, if we linger! Ah, haste!--let us haste!--for we must! She'll eclipse us--that _would_ be a stinger! She'll rise, and our business is "bust"-- My dear, we must snub her, and bring her Presumptuous pride to the dust-- Till she sorrowfully sinks in the dust." VI. _Post_ replies--"Oh, it's nothing but dreaming, Her hoping to put out _our_ light!-- Our brilliant and duplicate light! What did FERGUSSON say, blandly beaming Upon the tired House t'other night? He said _he_ would make it all right. Ah, we safely may trust to his scheming-- Be sure he will lead us aright-- He won't let the damsel there dreaming Despoil us of what is our right-- The monopoly plainly _our_ right!" VII. Yet watch _Cinderella_, and list her! She yet will emerge from her gloom-- Time will conquer her fears and her gloom. Before her she hath a bright vista.[1] The fairy Godmother will come! Redtape shall not long seal her doom. What is written is written! No "sister," (Though scorning her beauty, and broom) Shall shroud her bright light in the tomb Which yet the whole land shall illume! VIII. She's "some pumpkins"--though now she looks sober-- She's brilliant; she is "no small beer." No, no, _Cinderella_, my dear! Your envious "sisters" may jeer, And sit on you yet, for a year; Redtape your advancement may fear, And Monopoly's patrons look queer; But, as sure as the month of October Is famous for sound British beer, Vested Interest time shall prove _no_ bar To your final triumph, my dear! [Footnote 1: POE, not _Mr. Punch_, should have the credit of this and certain other Cockney rhymes.] * * * * *