Epistle to the Man in the Moon
Dublin Core
Title
Epistle to the Man in the Moon
Creator
Emma Cannon
Source
http://addison.vt.edu/record=b1775388~S1
Publisher
Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University
Date
May 1, 1876
Contributor
Nathan Blake, Arian Katsimbras
Language
English
Type
poem
Identifier
LD5655.V8 L4, ser.1, v.1, no.8 (June 1876), p.1
Text Item Type Metadata
Text
Dear sir; I've thought for want of better
Theme, I'd indite you a letter,
Give you the news, and let you know
How things are getting on below
Upon the earth. Please pardon me
For my presumption. It may be
Contrary to etiquette, for me,
Au earthly maid, to correspond
Unasked, with one so far beyond
Her reach, or highest aspiration;
But you must know the Yankee nation
In which she lives, think it au fait
To write, e'en if you've naught to say.
I hope to hear from you, sir, soon,
And get some items from the moon.
Wise men on earth tell us strange tales
Of mountains high, and dismal vales,
In your far country; that no water
Is to be had in any quarter.
They tell us, too, the mountains high
Punch large holes in the lunar sky,
While it is true, beyond a doubt
The bottoms have all tumbled out
The valleys; that great field of snow
Are to be seen, wher'ere you go.
But then I hope you are able
To keep yourself quite comfortable;
For old folks tell us, sir, that you
Have just as much as you can do
In burning brush. If this be so,
(And it may be, for aught I know,)
If you should thirst 'twould be quite nice
To warm a little snow or ice,
And thus get water. 'Twould be handy
To mix a little with your brandy
To keep you warm. That is, if you
Should drink it like our people do.
You must be careful, though, not take
Too much, for your weak "stomach's sake,"
Or you might slip upon the snow
And fall in some deep hole, you know,
Whose bottom's gone, and I can't tell
But you might to tumble into—well,
I'll not say where, to ears polite
To mention it is not thought right,
But 'tis a place, I'll let you know,
Where they have neither ice nor snow.
"Where gravitation shifting turns,"
And where the bon-fire always burns.
Please write me soon, and tell me whether
You ever meddle with our weather,
As people say you do. They say
You regulate it, day by day.
If so, I wish you'd try your hand
At warming up our frozen land,
Or we'll be, soon, in as bad fix
As you'd be, if you had no sticks
To burn. In fact, we will be soon
Comfortless as you are in the moon.
P.S.—My letter's written; I'm perplex'd
Bothered, put out, indeed quite vex'd
By mail to send, 'twere vain to try,—
We have no post-route to the sky.
I fear I cannot send it soon,
Unless perchance, some crazy loon
Should build a railroad to the moon,
Or take, a trip in a balloon.
Theme, I'd indite you a letter,
Give you the news, and let you know
How things are getting on below
Upon the earth. Please pardon me
For my presumption. It may be
Contrary to etiquette, for me,
Au earthly maid, to correspond
Unasked, with one so far beyond
Her reach, or highest aspiration;
But you must know the Yankee nation
In which she lives, think it au fait
To write, e'en if you've naught to say.
I hope to hear from you, sir, soon,
And get some items from the moon.
Wise men on earth tell us strange tales
Of mountains high, and dismal vales,
In your far country; that no water
Is to be had in any quarter.
They tell us, too, the mountains high
Punch large holes in the lunar sky,
While it is true, beyond a doubt
The bottoms have all tumbled out
The valleys; that great field of snow
Are to be seen, wher'ere you go.
But then I hope you are able
To keep yourself quite comfortable;
For old folks tell us, sir, that you
Have just as much as you can do
In burning brush. If this be so,
(And it may be, for aught I know,)
If you should thirst 'twould be quite nice
To warm a little snow or ice,
And thus get water. 'Twould be handy
To mix a little with your brandy
To keep you warm. That is, if you
Should drink it like our people do.
You must be careful, though, not take
Too much, for your weak "stomach's sake,"
Or you might slip upon the snow
And fall in some deep hole, you know,
Whose bottom's gone, and I can't tell
But you might to tumble into—well,
I'll not say where, to ears polite
To mention it is not thought right,
But 'tis a place, I'll let you know,
Where they have neither ice nor snow.
"Where gravitation shifting turns,"
And where the bon-fire always burns.
Please write me soon, and tell me whether
You ever meddle with our weather,
As people say you do. They say
You regulate it, day by day.
If so, I wish you'd try your hand
At warming up our frozen land,
Or we'll be, soon, in as bad fix
As you'd be, if you had no sticks
To burn. In fact, we will be soon
Comfortless as you are in the moon.
P.S.—My letter's written; I'm perplex'd
Bothered, put out, indeed quite vex'd
By mail to send, 'twere vain to try,—
We have no post-route to the sky.
I fear I cannot send it soon,
Unless perchance, some crazy loon
Should build a railroad to the moon,
Or take, a trip in a balloon.