That's the result of being tame,
And living in a hutch.
My notion is that it is vain
For you, you Grand Old Fella,
To rave of rabbits in the rain,
Beneath a big umbrella.
Don't let them know _we_ fatten best,
For this should ever be
A secret kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me!
* * * * *
[Illustration: AMONG THE BUNNIES.]
* * * * *
LITERATURE AND LOTTERY.
_(By a Patron of the Popular Press.)_
Yes, I've "a literary taste,"
And patronise a weekly journal;
'Tis what is called _Scissors and Paste_,
The paper's poor, the print's infernal.
But what of that, when, week by week,
High at the sight of it hope rises?
What in my Magazine I seek
Is just--a medium for Prizes!
I can't be bothered to read much,
I like my literature in snippets.
My hope is, with good luck, to clutch
Villas, gold watches, sable tippets.
A coupon and some weekly pence
Give me a chance of an annuity.
Oh, the excitement is intense!
I read with ardent assiduity,
_Not_ what the poor ink-spillers say
In sparkling "par," or essay solemn;
No, what I read, with triumph gay
Or hope deferred, is--the Prize Column!
On prose my time I seldom waste,
And poetry is poor and pottery.
But oh! I have an ardent taste
For Literature when linked with Lottery!
* * * * *
ROBERT'S LITTLE HOLLERDAY.
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