"Cupid's hair is curling yellow, And he hath a saucy face; With his chubby hands the fellow Shooteth into farthest space, Heedless of all time and place; King and squire and punchinello He delighteth to abase!
"Nude and winged the prankish blade is, And he speedeth everywhere, Vexing gentlemen and ladies, Callow youths and damsels fair Whom he catcheth unaware,-- Venturing even into Hades, He hath sown his torments there!
"For that bow, that bow and quiver,-- Oh, they are a cruel twain! Thinking of them makes me shiver. Oft, with all his might and main, Cupid sends those darts profane Whizzing through my heart and liver, Setting fire to every vein!
"And the torch he carries blazing,-- Truly 'tis a tiny one; Yet, that tiny torch upraising, Cupid scarifies the sun! Ah, good people, there is none Knows what mischief most amazing Cupid's evil torch hath done!
"Show no mercy when you find him! Spite of every specious plea And of all his whimpering, bind him! Full of flatteries is he; Armed with treachery, _cap-a-pie_, He'll play 'possum; never mind him,-- March him straightway back to me!
"Bow and arrows and sweet kisses He will offer you, no doubt; But beware those proffered blisses,-- They are venomous throughout! Seize and bind him fast about; Mind you,--most important this is: Bind him, bring him, but--watch out!"
OH, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, The evening shades are falling,-- Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear The voice of the Master calling?
Deep lies the snow upon the earth, But all the sky is ringing With joyous song, and all night long The stars shall dance, with singing.
Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, And close thine eyes in dreaming, And angels fair shall lead thee where The singing stars are beaming.
A shepherd calls his little lambs, And he longeth to caress them; He bids them rest upon his breast, That his tender love may bless them.
So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, Whilst evening shades are falling, And above the song of the heavenly throng Thou shalt hear the Master calling.
DEAR Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure, Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure; To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me,-- You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three! The cure, they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean; The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien; And though it's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow,-- All skin and feathers,--what of that? The cure takes time, you know.