Study Of An Elevation, In Indian Ink

This ditty is a string of lies.
But-how the deuce did Gubbins rise?

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.
Stands at the top of the tree;
And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led
To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is seven years junior to Me;
Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks,
And his work is as rough as he.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is coarse as a chimpanzee;
And I can't understand why you gave him your hand,
Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is dear to the Powers that Be;
For They bow and They smile in an affable style,
Which is seldom accorded to Me.

Potiphar Gubbins, C.E.,
Is certain as certain can be
Of a highly paid post which is claimed by a host
Of seniors, including Me.

Careless and lazy is he,
Greatly inferior to Me.
That is the spell that you manage so well,
Commonplace Potiphar G.?

Lovely Mehitabel Lee,
Let me inquire of thee,
Should I have riz to where Potiphar is,
Hadst thou been mated to Me?

Rudyard

Rudyard Kipling was an English journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist. He was born in British India, which inspired much of his work. His notable works include the novels 'The Jungle Book,' 'Kim,' and the poem 'If—.' Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, making him the youngest recipient of the award.

Rudyard

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Gregory Parable, LL.D.

A leafy cot, where no dry rot
Had ever been by tenant seen,
Where ivy clung and wopses stung,
Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed,
Where treeses grew and breezes blew
A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,
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Built twiggy beds to lay their heads
(My mother begs I'll make it "eggs,"
But though it's true that dickies do
Construct a nest with chirpy noise,
With view to rest their eggy joys,
'Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds,
As I explain to her in vain
Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes).
'Neath such a cot, built on a plot
Of freehold land, dwelt MARY and
Her worthy father, named by me
GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

He knew no guile, this simple man,
No worldly wile, or plot, or plan,
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A Ballad To The Tune Of The Cut-Purse

[1]

WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1702


I

Once on a time, as old stories rehearse,
    A friar would need show his talent in Latin;
But was sorely put to 't in the midst of a verse,
    Because he could find no word to come pat in;
                    Then all in the place
                    He left a void space,
        And so went to bed in a desperate case:
When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle!
He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle.
    CHO. Let censuring critics then think what they list on't;
        Who would not write verses with such an assistant?


II

This put me the friar into an amazement;
    For he wisely consider'd it must be a sprite;
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Verses Written At Bath, On Finding The Heel Of A Shoe.

Fortune! I thank thee: gentle goddess! thanks!
Not that my muse, though bashful, shall deny
She would have thankd thee rather hadst thou cast
A treasure in her way; for neither meed
Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes,
And bowel-racking pains of emptiness,
Nor noontide feast, nor evenings cool repast,
Hopes she from thispresumptuous, though, perhaps,
The cobbler, leather-carving artist! might.
Nathless she thanks thee and accepts thy boon,
Whatever; not as erst the fabled cock,
Vain-glorious fool! unknowing what he found,
Spurnd the rich gem thou gavest him. Wherefore, ah!
Why not on me that favour (worthier sure!)
Conferrdst thou, goddess! Thou art blind thou sayst:
Enough!thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
Nor does my muse no benefit exhale

William Cowper