Your ministers, soaring,
May shun all the boring
Of country and city baboon--
Or, like ministers' spouses,
Look down on both Houses--
From the car of the air-balloon.
The sweet six months' widow
Her weeds will abide, O,
No longer, nor cry "'Tis too soon!"
But range the skies over,
In search of a lover,
In the car of the air balloon.
If you wish for a singe-a
In Afric or India,
Or long for an Esquimaux' tune,
Or wish to go snacks
With the king of the blacks,--
Why,--call for your air-balloon.
If, on Teneriffe's Peak,
You'd wish for a steak,
Or dip in Vesuvius your spoon,
Or slip all the dog-days,
The rain-days, and fog-days,--
Go, call for your air-balloon.
Your doctors of physic
May banish the phthisic.
Your cook give you ice-creams in June--
If a dun's in the wind,
You may leave him behind,
And be off in your air-balloon.
On the top of the Andes,
Who's tortur'd with dandies?
On Potosi, who meets a buffoon?
But, for fear I'd get prosy,
I'll stop at Potosi,--
So, huzza for the air-balloon!
_Monthly Magazine_.
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