In their gardens, fruit before blossom came,
And the trees diminished as they grew;
And you never went out to walk a mile,
'Twas the mile that walked to you.
The people there are not tall or short,
Heavy or light, or stout or thin,
And their lives begin where they should leave off,
Or leave off where they should begin.
There childhood, with naught of childish glee,
Looks on the world with thoughtful brow;
'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow,
And cry, "We have done with it now!"
A singular race! what lives they spent!
Got up before they went to bed!
And never a man said what he meant,
Or a woman meant what she said.
They blended colours that will not blend,
All hideous contrasts voted sweet;
In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd,
And considered it rather neat.
They didn't believe in the wise and good,
Said the best were worst, the wisest fools;
And 'twas only to have their teachers taught
That they founded national schools.
They read in "books that are no books,"
Their classics--chess-boards neatly bound;
Those their greatest authors who never wrote,
And their deepest the least profound.
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