BY PROFESSOR ATE-TUNE.
Babe, with wond'ring eyes so round and great,
With crumpled toes and fingers, with bald pate,
And waxen cheeks of rose-hue delicate;-
What is the task appointed you by Fate ?
Dost bring us joy, or grief, or love, or hate,
Blessings to praise, or ills
Dreams from the ebon or the ivory gate,
Scraps from the kennel, or rich meats on plate ?
No matter how your gifts we estimate,
And of your cruelty or kindness prate,
Your predecessor's reign must terminate
Erelong-his sands run out at such a rate ! -
And when he dies, you will succeed him, straight,
A full-fledged Monarch-a mere babe, but late!
Well! we will welcome you to regal state
And on your Majesty's high bidding wait,
Contented our proud hopes and aims to bate
Before the King, who gives us a new date.
King Sixty-Seven is dead! Long live King Sixty-Eight!