POETRY.
AN AUTOMATIC LAY.
BY A MUSICAL BOX.
Mew is a mere automaton—free-will a fable vain : This dogma in the Magazines I lay down plump and plain— The Editor, poor man, may sigh, and call my reasoning thin : But o'er his acts he's no control,—the article goes in.
To life's enigmas, you'll admit, I've found the master-key ; A bunch of instincts, uncontrolled, inherited, make Me; Whate'er my forbears thought or did, I think and do it still : That legacy's my own, although they could not leave a will.
The troubles that beset our life thus vanish into air ; When nobody can help themselves, need anybody care?
The housemaid smashes, free from blame—her works she can't adjust; "Why do the things let go her hand '? " Dear me ! because they must!
All criminals I look upon with pity kin to love ;
The murderer was born to slay—poor, harmless, sacking dove ! The only folk who really rouse my automatic rage,
Are Christians, and such imbeciles—disgraces to their age!
To think that any man of sense can really hold it true That he's responsible for aught that he may say or do! Hypnotic he—or hypocrite ! and yet, it's hard to say Why I should scold automata because they're "built that way.'
And is it not a soothing thought to feel that no one can By striving, ever grow into a pure and upright man ?
But must remain, till freed by death, while years are rolling on, A helpless, hopeless, fate-compelled, evolved automaton !
R. S. H..
Previous page
