As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel, That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel, But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shocked Her, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked! She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then-- And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again, In safety to its father, if he would leave the door, At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore. Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way, That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day, And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip, There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,-- The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock, And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock, Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male," And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille. * * * * * And now about the baby, his voyaging began, Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man, He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew, Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" [Illustration] He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard! Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard! And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo, As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago! Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet, He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet, He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found, But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound! He lives without a purpose, an object or intent, Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent, He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew, Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do! He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail! The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail; The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew, "O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks, Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix, Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew, "O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale, The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail, Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue! "O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?" [Illustration] He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here, He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near, The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet, Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.