The feathers in her head at least till Monday;

Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt

A tract presented to be read on Sunday?
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose?

Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing?

Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose?
On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing?
Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell
To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he preyed extempore as well
As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way
(Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious
As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk

About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,
As any harmless man to take a walk,

If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,
As surely as I am a Christian scion,
I cannot think it is a mortal sin·

(Unless he's loose) to look upon a lion.
I really think that one may go, perchancė,
To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday -
(That is, provided that he did not dance) —
Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday) –
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles,

I cannot think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor
It is not plain, to my poor faith, at least,
That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,
The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?

The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven ?
The tender Love-Bird or the filial Stork ?
The punctual Crane - the providential Raven?
The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young?
Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday
That feathered marvel with a human tongue,
Because she does not preach upon a Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?

The busy Beaver that sagacious beast!
The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd
That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,

The horned Rhinoceros - the spotted LeopardThe Creatures of the Great Creator's hand

Are surely sights for better days than Monday The Elephant, although he wears no band,

Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,
Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature,
Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,

And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature "?
Better it were if, in his best of suits,

The artisan, who goes to work on Monday,
Should spend a leisure-hour amongst the brutes,
Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday -
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss
(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology)
But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus
Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology?
Is Brahma's Bull a Hindoo god at home

A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday

Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,
That there is such a dread of them on Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,
Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

A BLACK JOB.

"No doubt the pleasure is as great

Of being cheated as to cheat."-HUDIBRAS.

THE history of human-kind to trace

Since Eve-the first of dupes

the first of dupes - our doom unriddled,

A certain portion of the human race
Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams!

A rage that time seems only to redouble The Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes, For rolling in Pactolian streams,

That cost our modern rogues so little trouble.

No matter what,

to pasture cows on stubble,

To twist sea-sand into a solid rope,

To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble,
Or light with gas the whole celestial cope-
Only propose to blow a bubble,

And, Lord! what hundreds will suscribe for soap!

Soap! it reminds me of a little tale,

Though not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory,
When rustic games and merriment prevail —
But here's my story:

Once on a time no matter when-
A knot of very charitable men
Set up a Philanthropical Society,
Professing on a certain plan
To benefit the race of man,

And in particular that dark variety,
Which some suppose inferior-

The sable is to ermine,

as in vermin,

As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster,

As crows to swans, or soot to driven snow,
As blacking, or as ink to "milk below,"

Or yet, a better simile to show,

As ragman's dolls to images in plaster!

However, as is usual in our city,
They had a sort of managing Committee,
A board of grave, responsible Directors
A Secretary, good at pen and ink

A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink,

And quite an army of Collectors! Not merely male, but female duns,

Young, old, and middle-aged — of all degrees With many of those persevering ones,

Who mite by mite would beg a cheese!

And what might be their aim?

To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters
To save their bodies from the burning shame
Of branding with hot letters

Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes,
Their necks from iron yokes?

To end or mitigate the ills of slavery,
The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery?
To school the heathen negroes and enlighten 'em,
To polish up and brighten 'em,

And make them worthy of eternal bliss ?
Why, no the simple end and aim was this
Reading a well-known proverb much amiss
To wash and whiten 'em!

They looked so ugly in their sable hides
So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot
Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides,
However the poor elves,

Might wash themselves,
Nobody knew if they were clean or not-
On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot !

Not to forget more serious complaints

That even while they joined in pious hymn,

So black they were and grim,

In face and limb,

'They looked like Devils, though they sang like Saints:

The thing was undeniable!

They wanted washing! not that slight ablution