Classic Poem

My dear, do pull the bell,
And pull it well,
And send those noisy children all up stairs,
Now playing here like bears —
You George, and William, go into the grounds,
Charles, James, and Bob are there, — and take your string,
Drive horses, or fly kites, or any thing,
You're quite enough to play at hare and hounds, —
You little May, and Caroline, and Poll,
Take each your doll,
And go, my dears, into the two-back pair,
Your sister Margaret's there —
Harriet and Grace, thank God, are both at school,
At far off Ponty Pool —
I want to read, but really can't get on —
Let the four twins, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John,
Go — to their nursery — go — I never can
Enjoy my Malthus among such a clan!

Oh Mr. Malthus, I agree
In every thing I read with thee!
The world's too full, there is no doubt,
And wants a deal of thinning out, —
It's plain — as plain as Harrow's Steeple —
And I agree with some thus far,
Who say the Queen's too popular,
That is, — she has too many people.
There are too many of all trades,
Too many bakers,
Too many every-thing-makers,
But not too many undertakers, —
Too many boys, —
Too many hobby-de-hoys, —
Too many girls, men, widows, wives and maids, —
There is a dreadful surplus to demolish,
And yet some Wrongheads,
With thick not long heads,
Poor metaphysicians!
Sign petitions
Capital punishment to abolish;
And in the face of censuses such vast ones
New hospitals contrive,
For keeping life alive,
Laying first stones, the dolts! instead of last ones!
Others, again, in the same contrariety,
Deem that of all Humane Society
They really deserve thanks,
Because the two banks of the Serpentine,
By their design,
Are Saving Banks.
Oh! were it given but to me to weed
The human breed,
And root out here and there some cumbering elf,
I think I could go through it,
And really do it
With profit to the world and to myself, —
For instance, the unkind among the Editors,
My debtors, those I mean to say
Who cannot or who will not pay,
And all my creditors.
These, for my own sake, I'd destroy;
But for the world's, and every one's,
I'd hoe up Mrs. G — 's two sons,
And Mrs. B — 's big little boy,
Called only by herself an " only joy. "
As Mr. Irving's chapel's not too full,
Himself alone I'd pull —
But for the peace of years that have to run,
I'd make the Lord Mayor's a perpetual station,
And put a period to rotation,
By rooting up all Aldermen but one, —
These are but hints what good might thus be done!
But ah! I fear the public good
Is little by the public understood, —
For instance — if with flint, and steel, and tinder,
Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man,
Proposed to throw a light upon my plan,
No doubt some busy fool would hinder
His burning all the Foundling to a cinder.

Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday,
That wine and bun-day,
Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats,
Before they died by bit or sup,
Some meddling Marplot would blow up,
Just at the moment critical,
The economy political
Of saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats.

Equally 'twould be undone,
Suppose the Bishop of London,
On that great day
In June or May,
When all the large small family of charity,
Brown, black, or carrotty,
Walk in their dusty parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,
To sing together till they scare the walls
Of old St. Paul's,
Sitting in red, gray, green, blue, drab, and white,
Some say a gratifying sight,
Tho' I think sad — but that's a schism —
To witness so much pauperism —
Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make
In this poor overcrowded world more room,
Proposed to shake
Down that immense extinguisher, the dome —
Some humane Martin in the charity Gal -way
I fear would come and interfere,
Save beadle, brat, and overseer,
To walk back in their parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,
Islington — Wapping — or Pall Mall way!

Thus, people hatched from goose's egg,
Foolishly think a pest, a plague,
And in its face their doors all shut,
On hinges oiled with cajeput —
Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven,
And turning pale as linen rags
At hoisting up of yellow flags,
While you and I are crying " Orange Boven! "
Why should we let precautions so absorb us,
Or trouble shipping with a quarantine —
When if I understand the thing you mean,
We ought to import the Cholera Morbus!