"There once was a woman,

And what do you think?

She lived upon nothing

But victuals and drink.

Victuals and drink

"Were the chief of her diet,

And yet this poor woman

Scarce ever was quiet."

And were you so foolish

As really to think

That all she could want

Was her victuals and drink?

And that while she was furnished

With that sort of diet,

Her feeling and fancy

Would starve, and be quiet?

Mother Goose knew far better;

But thought it sufficient

To give a mere hint

That the fare was deficient;

For I do not believe

She could ever have meant

To imply there was reason

For being content.

Yet the mass of mankind

Is uncommonly slow

To acknowledge the fact

It behooves them to know;

Or to learn that a woman

Is not like a mouse,

Needing nothing but cheese,

And the walls of a house.

But just take a man,—

Shut him up for a day;

Get his hat and his cane,—

Put them snugly away;

Give him stockings to mend,

And three sumptuous meals;—

And then ask him, at night,

If you dare, how he feels!

Do you think he will quietly

Stick to the stocking,

While you read the news,

And "don't care about talking?"

O, many a woman

Goes starving, I ween,

Who lives in a palace,

And fares like a queen;

Till the famishing heart,

And the feverish brain,

Have spelled to life's end

The long lesson of pain.

Yet, stay! To my mind

An uneasy suggestion

Comes up, that there may be

Two sides to the question.

That, while here and there proving

Inflicted privation,

The verdict must often be

"Wilful starvation."

Since there are men and women

Would force one to think

They choose to live only

On victuals and drink.

O restless, and craving,

Unsatisfied hearts,

Whence never the vulture

Of hunger departs!

How long on the husks

Of your life will ye feed,

Ignoring the soul,

And her famishing need?

Bethink you, when lulled

In your shallow content,

'Twas to Lazarus only

The angels were sent;

And 't is he to whose lips

But earth's ashes are given,

For whom the full banquet

Is gathered in heaven!

"There was an old woman

Tossed up in a blanket,

Seventeen times as high as the moon;

What she did there

I cannot tell you,

But in her hand she carried a broom.

Old woman, old woman,

Old woman, said I,

O whither, O whither, O whither so high?

To sweep the cobwebs

Off the sky,

And I 'll be back again, by and by."

Mind you, she wore no wings,

That she might truly soar; no time was lost

In growing such unnecessary things;

But blindly, in a blanket, she was tost!

Spasmodically, too!

'T was not enough that she should reach

the moon;

But seventeen times the distance she must

do,

Lest, peradventure, she get back too

soon.

That emblematic broom!

Besom of mad Reform, uplifted high,

That, to reach cobwebs, would precipitate

doom,

And sweep down thunderbolts from out

the sky!

Doubtless, no rubbish lay

About her door,—no work was there to

do,—

That through the astonished aisles of Night

and Day,

She took her valorous flight in quest of

new!

Lo! at her little broom

The great stars laugh, as on their wheels

of fire

They go, dispersing the eternal gloom,

And shake Time's dust from off each

blazing tire!

"Little Miss Muffet

Sat on a tuffet,

Eating curds and whey:

There came a black spider,

And sat down beside her,

And frightened Miss Muffet away,"

To all mortal blisses,

From comfits to kisses,

There's sure to be something by way of

alloy;

Each new expectation

Brings fresh aggravation,

And a doubtful amalgam's the best of our

You may sit on your tuffet;

Yes,—cushion and stuff it;

And provide what you please, if you don't

fancy whey;

But before you can eat it,

There 'll be—I repeat it—

Some sort of black spider to come in the

way.