Shapes of Clay

Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best,

Most rare and excellent bequest

Of dying idiot to the wit

He died of, rat-like, in a pit!

Thyself disguised, in many a way

Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play,

Adorning all where'er it turns,

As the revealing bull's-eye burns,

Of the dim thief, and plays its trick

Upon the lock he means to pick.

Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear

As boldly as a brigadier

Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er,

Of rank, brigade, division, corps,

To show by every means he can

An officer is not a man;

Or naked, with a lordly swagger,

Proud as a cur without a wagger,

Who says: "See simple worth prevail—

All dog, sir—not a bit of tail!"

'T is then men give thee loudest welcome,

As if thou wert a soul from Hell come.

O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace

Of skeleton clock without a case—

With all its boweling displayed,

And all its organs on parade.

Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss,

Where Punch and I can meet and kiss;

Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r—

No higher his does ever soar.