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“Nothing would so múch delight me,”
Answered Súnday with a símper,
“Ás in any way ť oblige you,
Ór your heávy búrden lighten;

“Bút I need not tell you, sister,
Hów I make 't a point of conscience
Tó live álways like a lády
Ånd with nó work soil my fingers.

"And even wére I, which I am not,
óf myself inclined to lábor,
Gód's commandment is explícit:
"My seventh child shall dó no lábor'."

“God's seventh child! why, that 's mysélf,” said Sáturdáy laying down her rúbber; “Whát a fool I 've been to work so! Bút in future í 'll be wiser.

“Hów came yoú so long to insist on 't 'Twas the first child was exémpted, Ảnd make your six younger sisters Wórk, to keep you like a lády?

“Nów you 've lét by chance the truth out,
It 's the seventh child is exémpted
Táke the scrúbber; on your kneés down;
Í 'll dress fine and práy and ídle.”

“You had once your túrn,” said Sunday,
“Thé seventh child once was exémpted,
Ánd I worked just as you now do,
Í and your five élder sisters;

“Bút you grew so proud and saucy
Heáven or earth could not endúre it,
Ánd your birthright was taken from you
Ánd bestowed upon your bétters.”

“I remember wéll the robbery
Ánd the liés to jústify it;
Ánd how, not ť expose the family,
Í put úp with 't and said nothing.

“I remember toó, my sisters,
When they advised me to keep quiet,
Prophesied you 'd soon grow proúder,
Saúcier fár than ever Í

was.

“Lét her háve it,' óne and áll cried; ‘Prívilége was ever ódious; Lét her háve it, make the most of it; Cóme, dear Sáturdáy, with ús work.'

“I obeyed; you took my títle;
Called yourself God's Hóly Sábbath,
Dressed in sátin, práyed and ídled,
And grew every dáy more saúcy,

“Móre hardhearted, vain and selfish,
Móre intolerant, súpercílious,
Hypocrítical, overbearing,
Céremónious and religious,

“Till at last the whole world hates you,
Feárs you nó less than despises,
Cálls you in plain terms impóstor,
Foúl usúrper óf my birthright.”

“Véry fine talk fór my lády
Dowager Profáni Prócul;
Whý! it 's not my líkeness, sister,
Bút your own you háve been dráwing;

“Faithful from your mémory dráwing, Ás

you were while you reigned mistress Ánd your fátterers low before you Bówed and kissed the hém of your gárment.

“Who was 't thén was óverbearing?
Who was 't then was súpercílious ?
Whó was 't thén was vain and selfish,
Céremónious and religious ?

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"And if nów you 're something wiser,
Something more discreet and módest,
Léss encroaching, sánctimónious,
Phárisáical and exclusive,

“Í ’m to thánk for 't, who have taught you
Thát 'twasn't you your flátterers cared for,
Bút to háve something to flatter,
Ány idol tó bow dówn to."

Súch the Billingsgáte the sisters
Flúng and réflung át each other;
Which aimed best and hit the hardest,
Júdge, for Í can't, pátient reader.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Dec. 25, 1854.

WELL now I'm sure I don't know why in the world it was

put there, Standing up in the middle of the face like the gnomon of a

súndial, Very much, as one would say, in the way of the pássers by, And exposed to heat and cold, wet and dry, all the winds

that blow.

Don't tell me that it was for the sake of beauty it was ever

set up there, Still less that it was for utility, i. e. by way of a handle, And as to the hints I sometimes hear that it was out of mere

whim or vagary, I assure you I 'm not the man to lend an ear to insinuations

of that sort.

But I 'll tell you the idea that has just now flashed across

my mind

And which of course I hold myself at liberty to correct as I

improve in knowledge, For these are improving times, as you know, and the whole

world 's in progress, And the only wonder is, that with all our advancement we 're

so very far behind yet.

Now my idea 's neither more nor less than that it was set up

where it is simply because God Hadn't, or couldn't at the moment find, a more convenient

spot to put it in; And I 'm further of opinion that if you or I had had the

placing of it, It's no better but a thousand times worse it would have been

placed than now it is.

For while I admit that it does indeed at first sight seem a

little too far fórward set, Like a camp picket or vedette upon the very fore front and

edge of danger, Still there is no denying the solidity and security of its basis, And that it rarely if ever happens it 's obliged to evacuate

its position.

Why, I've seen an enemy come up to it in a towering fit of passion, And with his right hand clenched till it looked like a sledge

hammer or mason's mallet Strike it such a blow right in the face as you 'd swear must

annihilate it, Or at least send its ghost down dolefully whimpering to Orcus.

Nay, I've seen its best friend and nearest earthly relative With a giant's grasp lay hold of it, and squeeze it between

finger and thumb, Till it roared with downright agony as loud as a braying ass

or élephant, And yet, the moment after, it seemed not a hair the worse

but rather refreshed by it.

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