Nor ever yet used-can you well have a doubt of it ?-- Howling, and growling; He feels himself that their dodge is clever; And sharpened their limbs to sever. "If I mean to dine, I had better begin," And then, with a grin, And a voice the loudest that ever was neard, "Never trust to a tiger's word, He roars, If this dodge shall last much longer! You Bengalese, And prepare to be eaten up, if you please. Here goes! here goes!" and he gave a spring. The gentlemen, looking for no such thing, Which bursts from their most intelligent Tub, Of which-though it does not follow In every case of argumentation It is full because it is hollow. For not having a top, and no inside things As much as to say, "I only wish you may get it! But much as I may respect your ability, The Tiger has leapt up, heart and soul. But the Tub! the Tub! Ay, there's the rub! At present he 's balanced atop of the Tub, And the rest of his hide, Not weighing so much as his head and his legs, A pure understandin' Of the just equilibrium of casks and of kegs, Nor taught mathematics, To work out the problems of Euclid with pegs,- And the Tub has loomed large, balanced, paused, and turned over. The Tiger at first had a hobby-horse ride, And the question is next, long as fortune may frown or him, How the two Bengalese are to keep the Tub down ou him. 'Bout this there's no blunder, The Tiger is under The Tub! My verse need not run To the length of a sonnet, Keeps acting as bonnet To the Tiger inside, Who no more in his pride Can roam over jungle and plain, But sheltered alike from the sun and the rain, Around its interior his sides deigns to rub And longs for his freedom again. The two Bengalese, Not at all at their ease, Hear him roar, And deplore Their prospects as sore, Forgetting both picnic and flask; What of both will become, Helps the other to press on the cask; But increasing their weight By action of muscle and sinew, In order that forcibly you, Mr. Tub, May still keep the Tiger within you. On the top of the Tub, In the warmest of shirts, While the fat by his skirts Holds, anxiously puffing and blowing; And the thin peers over the top of the cask, "Is there any hope for us?" As much as to ask, With a countenance cunning and knowing; In a grief-song that ought to be sung whole, He gives it a catch, And shouts to the Tiger, "You 've now got your match; You may rush and may riot, may wriggle and roar, And both in a pretty pickle. The Tiger begins by giving a bound; The Tub 's half turned, but the men are found It's no use quaking and turning pale, They must keep a hold on the Tiger's tail, There they must pull, if they pull for weeks, Straining their stomachs and bursting their cheeks, While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks, They must keep the Tub turned over his back, For fear he should win the day from 'em. Yes, yes, they must hold him tight, From night till morning, from morn till night,- Till they starve the Tiger under the Tub, To his own surprise, With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel, And his tail thrust through the hole of a barrel. Oh dear! oh dear! it's very clear They can't live so; but they dare n't let go— Fate for a pitying world to wail, Starving behind a Tiger's tail. If Invention be Necessity's son, Now let him tell them what 's to be done. Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin, To the gratified gentleman, Short-and-stout. Note! mark! what a capital lark! Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and all, Baffled by what is about to befall. Is n't it now an original go! What, stop! I 'm ready to drop. Hold! stay! I 'm fainting away. |