  I’ve often wondered—have n’t you?— What all the little angels do To while eternity away, When grown-up angels sing and play Upon their harps with golden strings, And lutes and violas and things. What do they do? What do they play To while eternity away? After much pondering profound, Perhaps an answer I have found— I give it you for what it’s worth. The people now upon this earth, Who neither quite deserve to go Above hereafter, nor below— The prig, the poser, and the crank; The snob, who thinks of naught but rank; The gossip and the fool—in short, All nuisances of every sort— Will change into amusing toys For little angel girls and boys. The braggart will confer a boon By changing to a toy balloon; The snob tuft-hunter and the bore To shuttlecock and battledore Will turn; the highfalutin wights The angel boys will fly as kites; The gossip then will cease his prattle, And be an angel baby’s rattle; The prig—but you have got me there. Whether in heaven, or elsewhere, ’T is quite impossible to see What kind of use the prig can be; By what inscrutable design, Or by what accident divine, Or what impenetrable jest He was evolved, can ne’er be guessed. All nuisances of every sort— Will change into amusing toys For little angel girls and boys. The braggart will confer a boon By changing to a toy balloon; The snob tuft-hunter and the bore To shuttlecock and battledore Will turn; the highfalutin wights The angel boys will fly as kites; The gossip then will cease his prattle, And be an angel baby’s rattle; The prig—but you have got me there. Whether in heaven, or elsewhere, ’T is quite impossible to see What kind of use the prig can be; By what inscrutable design, Or by what accident divine, Or what impenetrable jest He was evolved, can ne’er be guessed. |
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