If we must die--let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die--oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be s... Read more of If We Must Die at Martin Luther King.caInformational Site Network Informational
Privacy
  Home Stories Jokes Joke Topics Jokes Riddles Anecdotes Irish Humour Jests Canadian Humour Puns Animal Anecdotes Free Jokes Humour Scenes


Most Viewed

Grace After Dinner
A Dog's Religion
The Upstart
His Duel With Captain D'esterre
His Birth
A Certificate Of Marriage
Wisdom
A Mistaken Frenchman
A Courtier's Retort
The Serenading Lover


Least Viewed

His Birth
Retentive Memory
O'leary And Captain Rock
O'connell And Secretary Goulburn
Lord Clare
His Person And Mode Of Argument
His Duel With Bully Egan
Curran At A Debating Society
His Controversy With An Infidel
His Reception At The Rotundo By The Volunteers


Random Irish Humour

Curran's Quarrel With Fitzgibbon
Swift's Peculiarity Of Humor
Election And Railway Dinners
His Habits Of Study--his Influence
Roger Cox
Swift's Political Principles
A Batch Of Interesting Anecdotes
Curran And The Judge
Taxing The Air
Curran And Lord Erskine




Meditation Upon A Broomstick

Irish Humour Home






This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that
neglected corner, I once knew in a flourishing state in a forest; it
was full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs: but now in vain
does the busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that
withered bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk. It is now at best but the
reverse of what it was, a tree turned upside down, the branches on the
earth, and the root in the air. It is now handled by every dirty wench,
condemned to do her drudgery, and by a capricious kind of fate, destined
to make her things clean, and be nasty itself. At length, worn out to
the stumps in the service of the maids, it is either thrown out of
doors, or condemned to the last use, of kindling a fire. When I beheld
this, I sighed and said within myself, Surely, mortal man is a
broomstick! Nature sent him into the world strong and lusty, in a
thriving condition, wearing his own hair on his head, the proper
branches of this reasoning vegetable, until the axe of intemperance has
lopped off his green boughs, and left him a withered trunk: he then
flies to art, and puts on a periwig, valuing himself upon an unnatural
bundle of hairs, all covered with powder, that never grew upon his head;
but now, should this, our broomstick, pretend to enter the scene,
proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all covered with dust,
though the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we should be apt to
ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges that we are of our own
excellencies, and other men's defaults!

But a broomstick, perhaps you will say, is an emblem of a tree
standing on its head; and pray what is man but a topsy-turvy creature,
his animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational, his head where
his heels should be, groveling on the earth! and yet, with all his
faults, he sets up to be a universal reformer and corrector of abuses, a
remover of grievances, * * sharing deeply all the while in the very same
pollutions he pretends to sweep away: his last days are spent in slavery
to women, and generally the least deserving; till worn to the stumps
like his brother besom, he is either kicked out of doors, or made use of
to kindle flames for others to warm themselves by.





Next: Cossing A Dog

Previous: The Upstart



Add to del.icio.us Add to Reddit Add to Digg Add to Del.icio.us Add to Google Add to Twitter Add to Stumble Upon
Add to Informational Site Network
Report
Privacy
SHAREADD TO EBOOK


Viewed 2092