What matter all my looks to thee? Thy duties bear in mind, poor elf; Quick, marry, and get a son to thyself, And so a German worthy be! I beam because ’tis proper for me. I wander up and down in the sky, From mere _ennui_ I peep from on high-- What matter all my looks to thee? (_The Poet speaks._) It is in truth my special merit That I can bear thy radiant light, Pledge of an endless youthful spirit, Thou dazzling beauty, blest and bright. But now mine eyes are growing weary, On my poor eyelids fast are falling, Like a black covering, the dreary Dark shades of night with gloom appalling. (_Chorus of Monkeys._) We monkeys, we monkeys, Like impudent flunkies, Stare at the sun, Who can’t prevent its being done. (_Chorus of Frogs._) The water is better, But also much wetter Than ’tis in the air, And merrily there We love to gaze On the sun’s bright rays. (_Chorus of Moles._) How foolish people are to chatter Of beams and sunny rays bewitching With us, they but produce an itching We scratch it and so end the matter. (_A Glow-worm speaks._) How boastingly the sun displays His very fleeting daily rays! But I’m not so immodest quite, And yet I’m an important light,-- I mean by night, I mean by night! 6. THE EVIL STAR. The star, after beaming so brightly, From the sky fell, a vision unsightly, What is the love by poets sung? A star amid a heap of dung. Like a poor mangy dog, when he’s dying, Beneath all this filth it is lying; Shrill crows the cock, loud grunts the sow, And wallows in the fearful slough. In the garden O had I descended, By fair flowerets lovingly tended, Where I oft yearn’d to find my doom, A virgin death, a fragrant tomb! 7. ANNO 1829. Give me a wide and noble field Where I may perish decently! O let me in this narrow world Of shops be not condemned to die! They eat full well, they drink full well, And revel in their mole-like bliss; Their magnanimity’s as great As any poor-box opening is. Cigars they carry in their mouths, Their hands we in their breeches view, And their digestive powers are great,-- O could we but digest them too! They trade in every spice that grows Upon the earth, yet we can trace, Despite their spices, in the air The odour of a grovelling race. Could I some great transgressions, yes, Colossal bloody crimes but see,-- Aught but this virtue flat and tame, This solvent strict morality! Ye clouds on high, O bear me hence, To some far spot without delay! To Lapland or to Africa, To Pomerania e’en--away!