University of Virginia Library

Dan Phaëthon—so the histories run—
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun,—
Or rather of Phœbus: but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a dence of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another.
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora!

Now old Father Phœbus, are railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,
Drove a very fast coach by the name of “The Sun;”
Running, they say,
Trips every day
(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way),
All lighted up with a famous array
Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's “shay,”
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now Phaëthon begged of his doting old father
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he was n't by any means Phœbus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,
To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
“By the terrible Styx!” said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
“To prove your reviler an infamous liar,
I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!”
“Then by my head,”
The youngster said,
“I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!—
For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!”
“Nay, Phaëthon, don't,—
I beg you won't,—
Just stop a moment and think upon't!”
“You 're quite too young,” continued the sage,
“To tend a coach at your tender age!
Besides, you see,
'T will really be
Your first appearance on any stage!
Desist, my child,
The cattle are wild,
And when their mettle is thoroughly ‘riled,’
Depend upon 't the coach'll be ‘spiled,’—
They 're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,
You'll rue the day,—
So mind, and don't be foolish, Pha!”
But the youth was proud,
And swore aloud,
'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd,—
He 'd have the horses and would n't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phœbus felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now, and could n't back out.
So calling Phaëthon up in a trice,
He gave the youth a bit of advice:—“
Parce stimulis, utere loris!
(A ‘stage direction,’ of which the core is,
Don't use the whip,—they 're ticklish things,—
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
Medio tutissimus ibis,
As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
Who was going to quod between two watchmen!
So mind your eye, and spare your goad,
Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!”

Now Phaëthon, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
“Crack—whack—
Whack—crack,”
Resounded along the horses' back!
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On, on they sped as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash!)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole “establishment” went to smash!
And Phaëthon, he,
As all agree,
Off the coach was suddenly hurled,
Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORAL.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses,—
Nor set it down in your table of forces,
That any one man equals any four horses!
Don't swear by the Styx!—
It 's one of Old Nick's
Diabolical tricks
To get people into a regular “fix,”
And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!