Well, perhaps in those days they had not yet known That _by need of new functions new organs are grown_. Those drowned chaps were sure a 'degenerate' crew, Or else, on their plunge into element new, Some 'law of selection' had rescued a few. And, 'if wishes were fishes' I think one or two Would have _wished_, and swam out of their scrape, do not you? Can it be that those 'Fish Tales' of mermen are true? No wonder that racing was always in fashion,-- All orders of beings were born with the passion-- But it seems that at length Genus Man will be winner. You cry 'Lucky dog!' But what now about dinner? No oysters, no turtle, fresh salmon, fried sole, No canvas duck nor fowl casserole. All these he has seen disappear from the stage, A sacrifice vast growing age after age. Their successive growth upward he's watched with dismay; They have come to be men, having all had their day! Though he took, while its lord, quite a taste of the creature, By rule Epicurean 'dum vivim.,' etcetera. In Paradise, Adam and Eve, to be sure, Since they didn't have flesh, ate their onion sauce pure, But, as our old friend John P. Robinson he Said, 'they didn't know everything down in Judee.' Now the better taught modern he very well knows What to beef and to mutton society owes. What are homes without hearths? What's a hearth without roasts? Or a grand public dinner with _nothing_ but toasts? Yet, what government measure, or scheme philanthropic, Or learned convention in hall philosophic, But is mainly sustained upon leasts and collations? At least, it is so in all civilized nations. Here's a fix! Yet indeed, soon or late, the whole race Must the problem decide on, with good or ill grace. We cannot go hungry; what are we to do? Shall we pulse it, like Daniel, that knowing young Jew? Letting Grahamite doctors our diet appoint, Eat our very plain pudding without any joint? Or, shall we the bloody alternative take, And cannibal meals of our relatives make, Put aside ancient scruples (for what's in a name?) And shake hands with the dainty New Zealander dame, Who thought that she really might relish a bit Of broiled missionary brought fresh from the spit? 'Twere surely most cruel in Nature our nurse, Man's march of improvement so quick to reverse. Will she offer a choice which we may not refuse, When we're sure to turn savage however we choose? We may slowly creep up to a lofty position, Then go back at one leap to the lower condition. Even so, my good friend, in a circle he goes, Who would follow such theories on to their close. If you've started with Darwin, as sure as you're born, You're in a dilemma; pray take either horn. T. * * * * *