Shapes of Clay - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 118

THE PUN.

Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best, Most rare and excellent bequest Of dying idiot to the wit He died of, rat-like, in a pit! Thyself disguised, in many a way Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, Adorning all where'er it turns, As the revealing bull's-eye burns, Of the dim thief, and plays its trick Upon the lock he means to pick. Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear As boldly as a brigadier Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, Of rank, brigade, division, corps, To show by every means he can An officer is not a man; Or naked, with a lordly swagger, Proud as a cur without a wagger, Who says: "See simple worth prevail— All dog, sir—not a bit of tail!" 'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, As if thou wert a soul from Hell come. O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace Of skeleton clock without a case— With all its boweling displayed, And all its organs on parade. Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, Where Punch and I can meet and kiss; Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r— No higher his does ever soar.