IN the abysses of the ocean deeps,

Fathoms removed from men and mortal strife,

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The unexpectant Oyster smiles and sleeps

Through the calm cycle of his peaceful life.

What though above his head the steamboat plies,

And close at hand he hears the fume and fuss

Of the impetuous Halibut that flies

The mad embraces of the Octopus.

Though the fierce tails of Whales like flails descend

Upon the water lashed to furious foam,

And the Sea-serpents writhe and twist and bend

All round the purlieus of his ocean home,

He still preserves his philosophic calm,

His high detachment from material things,

And lays to his untroubled soul the balm

Of that contentment oft denied to kings.

Not far off, on the shore, men fume and fret,

And prowl and howl and postulate and preach,

The Baby bellows in the bassinet,

And the Salvation Army on the beach.

The unsuccessful "Artist" of the "Halls"

Has blacked his face with cork, and now he sings

Of moons and coons and comic funerals

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And the enchantment that the cake-walk brings.

And on the pier the "milingtary band"

Poisons the air with beastly brazen sound,

While cockney couples wander hand in hand,

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And dismal tourists tour,

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And bounders bound.

And donkey-boys allure to donkey rides

The sitters on the sand beside the sea,

And touts sell "guides" to all the town provides,

From theatres to "painless dentistry."

To all this noise the Oyster lends no ear,

Partly because he has no ear to lend,

Partly because he hates to interfere,

Chiefly because these rhymes must have an end.