Said the Glug called Joi, “This climbing trees
Is a foolish art, and things like these
   Cause much distress in the land of Gosh. 
   Let’s stay on the ground and kill King Splosh!”
But Splosh, the king, he smiled a smile,
And beckoned once to his hangman, Guile,
   Who climbed a tree when the weather was calm;
   And they hanged poor Joi on a Snufflebust Palm;
           Then they sang a psalm,
   Did those pious Glugs ’neath the Snufflebust Palm.

And every bee that kisses a flow’r,
And every blossom, born for an hour,
   And every bird on its gladsome flight,
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight. 
For they say, “’Tis a simple test we’ve got: 
If you know one Glug, why, you know the lot!”
   So, they climbed a tree in the bourgeoning Spring,
   And they hanged poor Joi with some second-hand string. 
           ’Tis a horrible thing
   To be hanged by Glugs with second-hand string.

Then Splosh, the king, rose up and said,
“It’s not polite; but he’s safer dead. 
   And there’s not much room in the land of Gosh
   For a Glug named Joi and a king called Splosh!”
And every Glug flung high his hat,
And cried, “We’re Glugs! and you can’t change that!”
   So they climbed the trees, since the weather was cold,
   While the brazen bell of the city tolled
           And tolled, and told
   The fate of a Glug who was over-bold.

And every cloud that sails the blue,
And every dancing sunbeam too,
   And every sparkling dewdrop bright
   All know the Glugs quite well by sight. 
“We tell,” say they, “by a simple test;
For any old Glug is like the rest. 
   And they climb the trees when there’s weather about,
   In a general way, as a cure for gout;
           Tho’ some folks doubt
   If the climbing habit is good for gout.”

So Joi was hanged, and his race was run,
And the Glugs were tickled with what they’d done. 
   And, after that, if a day should come
   When a Glug felt extra specially glum,
He’d call his children around his knee,
And tell that tale with a chuckle of glee. 
   And should a little Glug girl or boy
   See naught of a joke in the fate of Joi,
           Then he’d employ
   Stern measures with such little girl or boy.

But every dawn that paints the sky,
And every splendid noontide high,
   All know the Glugs so well, so well. 
   ’Tis an easy matter, and plain to tell. 
For, lacking wit, with a candour smug,
A Glug will boast that he is a Glug. 
   And they climb the trees, if it shines or rains,
   To settle the squirming in their brains,
           And the darting pains
   That are caused by rushing and catching trains.

VII.  THE SWANKS OF GOSH