Memorials of Theophilus Trinal, Student :: :: University of Virginia Library

King Cras, though he is threaten'd oft
With certain deposition,
By always speaking people soft
Can change their disposition:
He promises them much and well,
Proposes novel schemes;
If they begin their woes to tell,
King Cras, he tells his dreams.

King Cras, he likes to hear the cries
Of any one aspirant,
“Rebellion let us organize,
Our king, he is a tyrant!”
Full well he knows he is exempt
From cause of fear and sorrow,
When told the rebels their attempt
Have put off till to-morrow.

King Cras has his peculiar way
Of valuing time present;
He eats and drinks and laughs to-day,
Does all that he finds pleasant:
He has besides his daily work;
This work, it is—to borrow;
But other busi ess he will shirk—
He leaves it till to-morrow.

King Cras, he has a palace vast,
So rapid was the building,

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That from the rougher work they pass'd
At once unto the gilding.
To-day must every nerve be strain'd
To make the gilding grand;
To-morrow might be ascertain'd
Whether the walls would stand.

King Cras is so magnificent,
Expensive is his budget;
But when he meets his Parliament
They're never found to grudge it:
His dearest project is their pet,
They feel no hesitation,
Pleased to increase the public debt—
The sole wealth of the nation.

Approach the city of King Cras,
And strange is the illusion,
All fair and stately seems, whereas
All's ruin and confusion;
Mansions have but a gate and tower,
A church is but a steeple;
And roofless houses every hour
Come tumbling on the people.

King Cras has many travellers
To visit his dominions,
With whom he readily confers,
And gives them his opinions;
Their interests he'll make his own,
He says, and they believe him,
And very few of them are known
Who ever after leave him.

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King Cras, he swaggers and cajoles,
But, it must be confest,
Rules over miserable souls,
Tormented with unrest;
Some with a cureless palsy sigh,
Some of despair are dying;
The bitterer the wish to fly
The less the power of flying.

No land there is, nor any seven—
Oh, terrible to tell!—
Where people talk so much of heaven
And feel so much of hell;
No land like Crasland in the earth,
Where ruinously scatter'd,
Lie minds and hearts of choicest worth
All broken and bespatter'd.

Crasland, the land of wealth and waste,
Of laziness and action,
Of mad delay, and madder haste,
Of boast and of distraction:
Where schemes of plenty and of peace
In war and famine finish;
And as the nation's hopes increase,
The grounds of them diminish.

Though all is finery atop,
All's wretchedness beneath;
Of pleasure there is not a drop
But is a drop of death:
Each hour as it dribbles past
A darker sadness tinges;

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And there are cruel pangs at last,
Where first were only twinges.

King Cras, he boldly perseveres
In promising and sinning;
His remedy for tears and fears
Is—something new beginning.
“All things,” he says, with royal smile,
“To-morrow will be better.”
The more with hope he can beguile,
The heavier will he fetter.

King Cras, he has been oft assail'd
With Resolutions banded;
But over millions has prevail'd
Most doughtily commanded:
His flag of truce possesses charms
To foil the bold endeavour;
Captains and men throw down their arms,
And cry, “King Cras for ever!”

King Cras was crown'd in ancient days,
And it is doubtful whether
Until the last consuming blaze,
He'll vanish altogether:
The sanguine say, “He's ruled so long
That realm of wreck and sorrow,
His health must now be far from strong,
Perhaps he'll die—to-morrow!”