Good Mr. Cross! we hate the fuss
And flames of your Vesuvius,
Whose roaring quite convinces us,
As each successive shock
That you deem a dose of powder,
With its deafening noise,
As good as medicine given to girls and boys
Suffering with measles or small-pock;—
In short we do believe, beyond a doubt,
You physic us to bring th'eruption—out!
In vain soft balmy sleep one courts,
On exhibition nights; all sorts
Of terrible and strange reports
Drive rest away, and mock it.
Think you our wives can quiet keep,
Or that a child can go to sleep
The while you "squib and rocket?"
I tell you, sir, I cannot count
The dangers to our daughters' fame;
But this I'll publish to their shame,
They find their sparks, and feel love's flame
Increasing in a-mount!
And tho' I'm no amusement hater,
Yet, by my study of Lav-a-ter,
Vesuvius is a dangerous—crater!
Bethink you, on some gala night,
Whether you'd much enjoy the sight
Of beasts and birds all taking flight,
And from the gardens, making out,
Should your Eruption, with its jars,
Just chance to break their cages' bars.
That were indeed a "breaking out"
I rather think you'd be for "driving in!"
Come, Mr. Cross, for once do try
To be good-natured, and your name belie;
Indulge no more these furious fiery fits;
Let such freaks cease,
Blow up your Mount Vesuvius—all to bits,
And prithee let us have—"a little peace!"