LAYS OF MODERN BABYLON. BY YOUNG WHAT D' Y' CALLY. (AGED NINE YEARS AND A DAY.) OLD MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG. The ancient dame of Hubbard, More ancient there are none, Has hied her to her cupboard, To fetch her dog a bone; From shelf to shelf her eyeballs Quickly and madly glare, The cupboard of Dame Hubbard Is desolate and bare. Again, with eagle's vision, She scans the wretched void; She seeks a bone; but there is none, And none that dog enjoyed. Now for a pleasant substitute She racks her puzzled head, And to the baker's darts she forth To buy the dog some bread. But presently returning With all that she required, The bread falls from her palsied hand— Ha! ha! the dog's expired. The mournful rights of sepulture She hastens to fulfil; And at an undertaker's Incurs a heavy bill. A coffin she has purchased, And madly rushes in; Jupiter Gammon! there's the dog Upon the broad, broad grin! Bewilderment and pleasure For mastery contend: Dame Hubbard's startled by the dog But glad to see the friend. She fain would entertain him With something to his wish; To fetch some tripe, she gives a wipe To a half dusty dish. Then, fleet of foot and gay of heart, Returning with the tripe, She dimly sees, through clouds of smoke, Her dog behind a pipe. But when did woman's patience Fall overcome and dead? Never while Mother Hubbard Had heart, and heels, and head! Off to the tavern straight she flew For wine, drawn from the wood; She brought it—and upon his head The dog inverted stood. Untiring and undaunted, A fruiterer she sought; The fair and fragrant gooseberry, The currants, too, she bought; The strawberry, whose noble leaves Of dukedom are the type; The raspberry, which, like the mind, Is long in getting ripe: She bought them all, both great and small; But entering with the fruit, The sound of melody she heard— The dog did play the flute.