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YAN YEAN.
The Undertaker's Song.
What's the use of this fuss and this bother
About the Yan Yean that we drink,
Are stenches so rare they can't smother
In Melbourne a little more stink :
The fluid is muddy, unclean,
That into each household they send
Undertakers still count the Yan Yean
The professional reliable friend.
'Tis a strange wind that only blowa ill,
Is a proverb as true as 'tls pat'
For that water brings grist to our mill
And the poor undertakers wax fat,
'Tis true that typhoid rages high,
And death is imbibed with each drop—
But, then, if folks don't sometimes die
Our trade would soon shut up its shop
Oh, public dear, hasten to taste—
Be not of the water afraid,
Or our beautiful plumes moult to waste––
"Come, die, and let live," says the trade
Its an ill wind that blows no one good
And the coffin-man doesn't wish that ;
Never balloo till you're in our wood,
Let tho poor undertaker wax fat,
Can't Parliament let it alone ?
Legislators are awfully mean,
And must havo the hoart of a stone
To tamper with slimy Yan Yean ;
What's the use their boards—What, indeed !
Why make o'er the water such fuss,
When the only boards folks will soon need
Are tho boards that are fashioned by us.
Let them dip if they will in the vat,
There poison in plenty is soon :
'Tis tho coffin-man's chance to get fat
If you don't touoh the bonny Yan Yean
Then drink, deeply drink, for a while,
Nor cIose the impurities scan ;
Take your typhoid and cheerfully smile,
And die, as you ought, like a man.
Every trade in this world tries to live,
Even so do the hearse-owners yearn,
Quaff the water then gaily and give
The poor undertaker a turn.
Have no coward care in your ken,
For care, recollect, killed a cat ;
Stick to water for tipple, oh, men,
While the poor undertaker grow fat.
—Melbourne Punch.
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