  BY JOYCE JOCUND. Good Mr. Cross! we hate the fuss And flames of your Vesuvius, Whose roaring quite convinces us, As each successive shock Grows louder, That you deem a dose of powder, With its deafening noise, As good as medicine given to girls and boys Suffering with measles or small-pock;— In short we do believe, beyond a doubt, You physic us to bring th'eruption—out! In vain soft balmy sleep one courts, On exhibition nights; all sorts Of terrible and strange reports Drive rest away, and mock it. Think you our wives can quiet keep, Or that a child can go to sleep The while you "squib and rocket?" I tell you, sir, I cannot count The dangers to our daughters' fame; But this I'll publish to their shame, They find their sparks, and feel love's flame Increasing in a-mount! And tho' I'm no amusement hater, Yet, by my study of Lav-a-ter, Vesuvius is a dangerous—crater! Bethink you, on some gala night, Whether you'd much enjoy the sight Of beasts and birds all taking flight, And from the gardens, making out, Should your Eruption, with its jars, Just chance to break their cages' bars. That were indeed a "breaking out" And din I rather think you'd be for "driving in!" Come, Mr. Cross, for once do try To be good-natured, and your name belie; Indulge no more these furious fiery fits; Let such freaks cease, Blow up your Mount Vesuvius—all to bits, And prithee let us have—"a little peace!" |
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