The Reg'lar Lark's a very gay old Bird;

      At sunrise often may his voice be heard

      As jauntily he wends his homeward way,

      And trills a fresh and merry roundelay.

      And some old, wise philosopher has said:

      Rise with a lark, and with a lark to bed.

      Although a learned Entomologist

      May doubt if Humbugs really do exist,

      Yet each of us, I'm sure, can truly say

      We've seen a number of them in our day.

      But are they real?—well, a mind judicial

      Perhaps would call them false and artificial.

      The Poppycock's a fowl of English breed,

      And therefore many think him fine indeed.

      Credulous people's ears he would regale,

      And so he crows aloud and spreads his tale.

      But he is stuffed with vain and worthless words;

      Fine feathers do not always make fine birds.

      The Haycock cannot crow; he has no brains,

      No,—not enough to go in when it rains.

      He is not gamy,—fighting's not his forte,

      A Haycock fight is just no sort of sport.

      Down in the meadow all day long he'll bide,

      (That is a little hay-hen by his side.)

      A Theory, by scientists defended,

      Declares that we from monkeys are descended.

      This being thus, we therefore clearly see

      The Powder-Monkey heads some pedigree.

      Ah, yes,—from him descend by evolution,

      The Dames and Daughters of the Revolution.

      The sportive Tree Calf here we see,

      He builds his nest up in a tree;

      To this strange dwelling-place he cleaves

      Because he is so fond of leaves.

      'Twas his ancestral cow, I trow,

      Jumped o'er the moon, so long ago.

      But he is not so great a rover,

      Though at the last he runs to cover.

      The Military Frog, as well you know,

      Is the famed one who would a-wooing go.

      And on the soldier's manly breast displayed,

      He wins the heart of every blushing maid.

      But, as a frog, I think he's incomplete,

      He has no good hind legs that we may eat.

      This animal of which I speak

      Is a most curious sort of freak.

      Though Serpent would its form describe,

      Yet it is of the feathered tribe.

      And 'tis the snake, I do believe,

      That tempted poor old Mother Eve,

      For never woman did exist

      Who could its subtle charm resist.

      Oft through the stillness of the summer night

      We see the Brick Bat take his rapid flight.

      And, with unerring aim, descending straight,

      He meets a cat on the back garden gate.

      The little Brick Bat could not fly alone,—

      Oh, no; there is a power behind the thrown.

      The Cat O' Nine Tails is not very nice,—

      No good at all at catching rats and mice;

      She eats no fish, though living on the sea,

      And no one's friend or pet she seems to be.

      Yet oft she makes it lively for poor Jack,—

      Curls round his legs, and jumps upon his back.

      Here's the Round Robin, round as any ball;

      You scarce can see his head or tail at all.

      He's not a carrier-pigeon, though he brings

      Important messages beneath his wings.

      And 'tis this freak of ornithology

      They mean who say, "A little bird told me."

      The Iron Spider is an insect strange,