INHUMANITY OF ANGLING. 197 



List his first and latest screeching, 



As his thoughts to madness rush, 

 Mercy from the Fates beseeching, 



Boiling with unconscious blush. 



Is there, mighty Jove ! a lady, 



Lovely, gentle, fair, and young, 

 Who could, while thus his black grows fady, 



And his deep'ning blush more strong, 

 Endure the thought of lobster-salad ? 



Or dream of ord'ring lobster- sauce ? 

 No! rather would she write a ballad, 



Lamenting sore that lobster's loss. 



Sweet, indeed, are lobster-patties ! 



Passing sweet is lobster- soup ! 

 But let me ask you whether that is 



Cause why we should lobsters coop 

 In caldrons, while they're 'live and kicking, 



Arrayed in native suits of black, 

 Which they must change to tempt your picking, 



And redden o'er from breast to back ? 



Oh, ye youth of both the sexes ! 



Bethink you how a lobster boiling 

 Abhors the bath, in which he vexes 



His tortured limbs with bootless toiling ! 

 And when people laud his colour, 



With beating heart and shaking head, 

 Inform them how, 'mid frantic dolour, 



He dying gained that lively red I " 



17 



