What change comes o’er the spirit of the place,
  As if transmuted by some spell organic? 
Turns fell Hyaena of the Ghoulish race? 
  The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic? 
Do Irish minds,—­(whose theory allows
  That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)—­
Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows
  Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday—­
  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

There are some moody fellows, not a few,
  Who, turn’d by Nature with a gloomy bias,
Renounce black devils to adopt the blue,
  And think when they are dismal they are pious: 
Is’t possible that Pug’s untimely fun
  Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday—­
Or p’rhaps some animal, no serious one,
  Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday—­
  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offence have serious Fellows found
  To raise their spleen against the Regent’s spinney? 
Were charitable boxes handed round,
  And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea? 
Perchance the Demoiselle refused to moult
  The feathers in her head—­at least till Monday;
Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt
  A tract presented to be read on Sunday—­
  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose? 
  Who mourns through Monkey tricks his damaged clothing? 
Who has been hiss’d by the Canadian Goose? 
  On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing? 
Some Smithfield saint did jealous feelings tell
  To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday,
Because he prey’d extempore as well
  As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday—­
  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way
  (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius)
Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day
  Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious—­
As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk
  About the grounds from Saturday till Monday,
As any harmless man to take a walk,
  If saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday—­
  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin,
  As surely as I am a Christian scion,
I cannot think it is a mortal sin—­
  (Unless he’s loose) to look upon a lion. 
I really think that one may go, perchance,
  To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday—­
(That is, provided that he did not dance)
  Bruin’s no worse than bakin’ on a Sunday—­
  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles,
  I cannot think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
  Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor—­
It is not plain, to my poor faith at least,
  That what we christen “Natural” on Monday,
The wondrous History of bird and beast,
  Can be Unnatural because it’s Sunday—­
  But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?