Classic Poem

I RISE , Mr. Chairman, my hand on my glass,
To move that our annual money bill pass,
So firmly we draw unanimity's cords,
We sha'n't throw it out, tho' it sprang from the Lords.

Dame Poverty's called by some out-of-date quiz
" A nurse to the virtues " — I dare say she is;
But as to the virtues that crown our dram. pers .,
They're apt to prove sick when put out to nurse.

We've a motto — my Latin I fear's gone to grass —
In English it means that the stage is a glass,
To make it a mirror it still wants, good lack!
A little quicksilver to rub on its back.

Shall dingy Othello contemplate in wo
His milk-score, and cry (Cash I owe) Cassio!
No, never shall Britons a hero down trample,
That set married men such a glorious example.

Shall Luke, who now eats such a supper in " Riches, "
Devour from a caldron cheap soup with the witches?
Ophelia can't dine upon daisies and rue,
And " Poor Tom's a-cold, " is no joke if it's true.

Recollect, tho' from merit I'd not be detracting,
That as yet we've discovered no railroad for acting;
Recollect that no steam can aid our manufacture,
And no gas can dilate a man into an actor.

I'll not any longer part toper and glass,
I move, Mr. Chairman, our money bill pass,
And when you report progress, that chair to retain,
I'll hope you'll ask leave, sir, to sit there again.