I I BERLIEVE it’s cornceeded on all sides That of all the cute bipeds made Since the world war created, the Yankee Allers gets the best in a trade!It’s a boast that no race can match ’em In expedients sure ter win: And all others must get up right early If they would n’t be taken in! As a proof of this ere declaration They tell of one up at Cape Cod, Who’s so all-fir’d smart he endeavor’d Ter play a trump kerd at his God! He’s a fisherman by occerpation, Is this feller they call Bob Munn; And ter dry his fish he ask’d mandamus Ter sercure more light from the sun! The court would not listen ter the motion, But this action did not appall: He fix’d up a merchine ter uterlize The rerfulgent rays of old Sol. With powerful glasses he center’d The rays on his cargoes of cod, And chuckl’d right smart at his success In stealin’ the smiles of his God! For a time his merchine work’d ter a charm, And his sackerlege war endur’d; While his rivals in trade war astonish’d At the many quintals he cur’d. But Bob Munn, he grew bold in his averice, And the splendid march he had stole Upon his Creator and his rivals, E’en at the expense of his soul. He had read in the Scripters of Lot’s wife Who ter salt war chang’d in a night, As a punershment for diserbedience And exercizin’ wimin’s right— (A right ter pry inter other’s affa’rs By evesdroppin’ if she’s inclin’d, For which each one of ’em should be treated As Lot’s mistress what look’d berhind.) But, endin’ he aposterphe, I must Return ter the exploits of Munn, Who ignor’d the bounty of Jerhover, And corntiner’d ter steal the sun! The story of Lot’s wife impress’d him With a more avericious wish— The diskivery of arter-fish-al means For ter salt his catches of fish. On the shores of Cape Cod in them days Many old maids sigh’d alone For the lips of a man ter caress ’em, And the means ter sercure a home. They had been doom’d ter sore diserpointment, The girlish bloom had diserpear’d, Leavin’ a shad-er of thar lost beauty On the features so dry and sear’d. Bob Munn, he long ponder’d on the subject Of testin’ that ere recerpe, What work’d ter a charm at old Gomorrer, And set a poor hen-peck’d man free! God had smil’d upon his undertakin’s, And he felt he might tempt him still, With a more ingenious expererment, Ter bring a fresh grist ter his mill. Then he sent out many invertations— Corlected the maids at his board, And while they war gossippin’ o’er thar tea In his chamber he ask’d the Lord— Ter merakerlously chenge ’em ter salt The cheaper ter cure his fresh cod; Then in faith he erose from his marrers, And his sinful tamp’rin’ with God! Now Bob Munn in his folly expected On rejinin’ his guests ter find The work he’d mapped out for the Master, Perform’d by His Infernite mind. But not so. On reachin’ the tea-drinkers, Whar he trusted ter git his wish, No pillars of salt war thar; but harf of Munn’s carcass war cheng’d ter a fish! Bob Munn soon diskiver’d it war wrongful, And, chagrin’d tuk ter the water: Becomin’ an amphibious anermal, The first mermaid war his daughter. Two centuries have pars’d away since then; The mermaids have multerplied, And, old mariners say, it all comes from Lovin’ fish premerturely dri’d! And, although I won’t vouch for it, they say This is why the Yankees like cod, Car’fully season’d, and salted and cur’d By the means pervided by God. But the moral—ye see it war sinful Ter tempt the Almighty ter fast! And this story will show ye how He got The best of that Yankee at last! Whenever ye hear tell of a mermaid Be warn’d by the sin of poor Bob, Who attempted ter stock the kerds upon His Maker, but—botch’d the job! _ |
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