A twist in each parental muzzle Betray’d the hardship of the puzzle-- So much the flavour of life’s cup Is framed by early wrong or right, And Kangaroos we know are quite Dependent on their “rearing up.” The question, with its ins and outs, Was intricate and full of doubts; And yet they had no squeamish carings For trades unfit or fit for gentry, Such notion never had an entry, For they had no armorial bearings. Howbeit they’re not the last on earth That might indulge in pride of birth; Whoe’er has seen their infant young Bob in and out their mother’s pokes, Would own, with very ready tongue, They are not born like common folks. Well, thus the serious subject stood, It kept the old pair watchful nightly, Debating for young hopeful’s good, That he might earn his livelihood, And go through life (like them) uprightly. Arms would not do at all; no, marry, In that line all his race miscarry; And agriculture was not proper, Unless they meant the lad to tarry For ever as a mere clod-hopper. He was not well cut out for preaching At least in any striking style; And as for being mercantile-- He was not form’d for over-reaching. The law--why there still fate ill-starr’d him, And plainly from the bar debarr’d him: A doctor--who would ever fee him? In music he could scarce engage, And as for going on the stage In tragic socks I think I see him. He would not make a rigging-mounter; A haberdasher had some merit, But there the counter still ran counter, For just suppose A lady chose To ask him for a yard of ferret! A gardener digging up his beds, The puzzled parents shook their heads. “A tailor would not do because--” They paused and glanced upon his paws. Some parish post, though fate should place it Before him, how could he embrace it? In short each anxious Kangaroo Discuss’d the matter through and through By day they seem’d to get no nearer, ’Twas posing quite-- And in the night Of course they saw their way no clearer! At last thus musing on their knees-- Or hinder elbows if you please-- It came--no thought was ever brighter! In weighing every why and whether, They jump’d upon it both together-- “Let’s make the imp a _short-hand writer_!” MORAL. I wish all human parents so Would argue what their sons are fit for; Some would-be critics that I know Would be in trades they have more wit for. I CANNOT BEAR A GUN.