Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/443
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THE ANSWER OF THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY.
425
Come down while the soft winds are sighing!
Come down—oh, you shall and you must!
Come down when the dust-clouds are flying!
Dear mother,—come down with the dust!
Come down—oh, you shall and you must!
Come down when the dust-clouds are flying!
Dear mother,—come down with the dust!
Fashion.
I stood amid the glittering throng,
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
And there I stood confoundedly long,
Like the fine folks whom I stood among,
Fiddle de dec, fiddle de dee.
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
And there I stood confoundedly long,
Like the fine folks whom I stood among,
Fiddle de dec, fiddle de dee.
I stood and stared, and stared and stood,
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
To have seen me stood would have done you good,
For I stood j ust like a log of wood,-
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
To have seen me stood would have done you good,
For I stood j ust like a log of wood,-
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
And I stood, and I stood till the dawn of day,
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
Then I stood amid the throng so gay;
Yes! I stood till at last—I went away!
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee.
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee!
Then I stood amid the throng so gay;
Yes! I stood till at last—I went away!
Fiddle de dee, fiddle de dee.
The Answer of the Egyptian Mummy.
Vile Horace Smith's "Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition."
Child of the latter days! thy words have broken
A spell that long has bound these lungs of clay,
For since this smoke-dried tongue of mine hath spoken,
Three thousand tedious years have rolled away.
Unswathed at length, I stand at ease before ye,—
List, then, oh! list, while I unfold my story.
A spell that long has bound these lungs of clay,
For since this smoke-dried tongue of mine hath spoken,
Three thousand tedious years have rolled away.
Unswathed at length, I stand at ease before ye,—
List, then, oh! list, while I unfold my story.
Thebes was my birthplace—an unrivalled city,
With many gates, but here I might declare
Some strange plain truths except that it were pity
To blow a poet's fabric into air;
Oh! I could read you quite a Theban lecture,
And give a deadly finish to conjecture,
With many gates, but here I might declare
Some strange plain truths except that it were pity
To blow a poet's fabric into air;
Oh! I could read you quite a Theban lecture,
And give a deadly finish to conjecture,