Now at a picnic, 'mid fair golden curls, Bright eyes, straw hats, _bottines_ that fit amazingly, A croquet-bout is planned by all the girls, And he, consenting, speaks of croquet praisingly; But suddenly declines to play at all in it-- The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it! Next, when at quiet seaside village, freed From cares episcopal and ties monarchical, He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed, In manner anything but hierarchical-- He sees--and fixes an unearthly stare on it-- That curate's face, with half a yard of hair on it! At length he gave a charge, and spake this word: "Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may. To check their harmless pleasuring's absurd; What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may." He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him, The curate vanished--no one since has heard of him. [Illustration] LIFE First you're born--and I'll be bound you Find a dozen strangers round you. "Hallo," cries the new-born baby, "Where's my parents? which may they be?" Awkward silence--no reply-- Puzzled baby wonders why! Father rises, bows politely-- Mother smiles (but not too brightly)-- Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing-- Nurse is busy mixing something.-- Every symptom tends to show You're decidedly _de trop_-- Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! Time's teetotum, If you spin it, Give its quotum Once a minute: I'll go bail You hit the nail, And if you fail The deuce is in it! You grow up, and you discover What it is to be a lover. Some young lady is selected-- Poor, perhaps, but well-connected, Whom you hail (for Love is blind) As the Queen of Fairy-kind. Though she's plain--perhaps unsightly, Makes her face up--laces tightly, In her form your fancy traces All the gifts of all the graces. Rivals none the maiden woo, So you take her and she takes you! Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! Joke beginning, Never ceases, Till your inning Time releases; On your way You blindly stray, And day by day The joke increases! * * * * *