The pear-shaped vacuum globe, I understand, Is far too hot to fondle with the hand. While, as is patent to the meanest sight, The carbon filament is very bright. As for the lights they hang about the town, Some praise them highly, others run them down. This system (technically called the Arc), Makes some passages too light, others too dark. But in the house the soft and constant rays Have always met with universal praise. For instance: if you want to read in bed No candle burns beside your curtain’s head, Far from some distant corner of the room The incandescent lamp dispels the gloom, And with the largest print need hardly try The powers of any young and vigorous eye. Aroint thee, Muse! Inspired the poet sings! I cannot help observing future things! Life is a vale, its paths are dark and rough Only because we do not know enough: When Science has discovered something more We shall be happier than we were before. Hail, Britain, Mistress of the Azure Main, Ten thousand Fleets sweep over thee in vain! Hail, Mighty Mother of the Brave and Free, That beat Napoleon, and gave birth to me! Thou that canst wrap in thine emblazoned robe One quarter of the habitable globe. Thy mountains, wafted by a favouring breeze, Like mighty rocks withstand the stormy seas. Thou art a Christian Commonwealth; and yet Be thou not all unthankful--nor forget As thou exultest in Imperial Might The Benefits of the Electric Light. FOOTNOTES: [1] To be pronounced as a monosyllable in the Imperial fashion. [2] Mr. Punt, Mr. Howl, and Mr. Grewcock (now, alas, deceased). [3] A neat rendering of “Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.” [4] To the Examiners: These facts (of which I guarantee the accuracy) were given me by a Director. [5] A reminiscence of Milton: “Fas est et ab hoste doceri.” [6] Lambkin told me he regretted this line, which was for the sake of Rhyme. He would willingly have replaced it, but to his last day could construct no substitute. THE YELLOW MUSTARD Oh! ye that prink it to and fro, In pointed flounce and furbelow, What have ye known, what can ye know That have not seen the mustard grow? The yellow mustard is no less Than God’s good gift to loneliness; And he was sent in gorgeous press To jangle keys at my distress. I heard the throstle call again, Come hither, Pain! come hither, Pain! Till all my shameless feet were fain To wander through the summer rain. And far apart from human place, And flaming like a vast disgrace, There struck me blinding in the face The livery of the mustard race. * * * * * To see the yellow mustard grow Beyond the town, above, below; Beyond the purple houses, oh! To see the yellow mustard grow! ON HYGIENE