Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea,
Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee.
The wedding took place at the Church of
St. Blare;
The fashion, the rank and the wealth were
all there—
No person was absent of all whom one meets.
Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their
seats,
While good Sir John Satan attended the
door
And Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor,
Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug,
Preserving the peace between poodle and
pug.
Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride
up the aisle
To blush in her blush and to smile in
her smile;
Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent
groom
To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in
his gloom.
The rites were performed by the hand and
the lip
Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham
Pip,
Assisted by three able-bodied divines.
He prayed and they grunted, he read, they
made signs.
Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing,
such grace
Were ne’er before seen in that heavenly
place!
That night, full of gin, and all blazing
inside,
Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride.
A BUBBLE.
Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore
Was a dame of superior mind,
With a gown which, modestly fitting before,
Was greatly puffed up behind.
The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned
With an inspiration bright:
It magnified seven diameters and
Was remarkably nice and light.
It was made of rubber and edged with lace
And riveted all with brass,
And the whole immense interior space
Inflated with hydrogen gas.
The ladies all said when she hove in view
Like the round and rising
moon:
“She’s a stuck up thing!”
which was partly true,
And men called her the Captive
Balloon.
To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day
She went and she said:
“O dear!
If I leave off this what will people
say?
I shall look so uncommonly
queer!”
So a costume she had accordingly made
To take it all nicely in,
And when she appeared in that suit arrayed,
She was greeted with many
a grin.
Proudly and happily looking around,
She waded out into the wet,
But the water was very, very profound,
And her feet and her forehead
met!
As her bubble drifted away from the shore,
On the glassy billows borne,
All cried: “Why, where is Mehitable
Moore?
I saw her go in, I’ll be sworn!”
Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew
hot,
Till it burst with a sullen
roar,
And the sea like oil closed over the spot—
Farewell, O Mehitable Moore!
