If rod-like comets, red as blood,
Are ‘mongst the constellations view’d,
Out springs the Ignoramus, yelling:
‘The star’s exactly o’er my dwelling!
What woeful prospect, ah, for me!
Then calls his neighbour mournfully:
‘Behold that awful sign of evil,
Portending woe to me, poor devil!
My mother’s asthma ne’er will leave her,
My child is sick with wind and fever;
I dread the illness of my wife,
A week has pass’d, devoid of strife,–
And other things have reach’d my ear;
The Judgment Day has come, I fear!’
His neighbour answered: ‘Friend, you’re right!
Matters look very had to-night.
Let’s go a street or two, though, hence,
And gaze upon the stars from thence.’–
No change appears in either case.
Let each remain then in his place,
And wisely do the best he can,
Patient as any other man.