THY pencil, too,—with what a force It shadowed Nemesis, her course! Who that once saw, can e'er forget, The cats which mourned for Harriet, With eyes so grievously attacked By all the pains of cataract? Or Peter's own despondent form? Or Robert's very local storm? Or who without a thrill can scan The awful "red-legged scissor-man"? Thy Peter was a beacon-light To guide my erring steps aright; For what deters me from the fun Of mocking Afric's ebon son, (A kind of sport to which my mind Is naturally much inclined), But recollection of the ill Befalling Arthur, Ned, and Will? Did not Augustus pine and droop Through his antipathy to soup, A cross like his would surely mark The spot where I lay stiff and stark; And were it not that cruel Fred Consumed unpleasant drugs in bed, I should, I feel it, every day Defy the R.S.P.C.A. This wish for thee, then, Mentor rare Of little people everywhere: May the earth lightly on thee lie, May @3Struwwelpeter@1 never die! |