Part 53 (1/2)

In town, we've no use for the skies overhead, For when the sun rises then we go to bed; And as to that old-fas.h.i.+oned virgin the moon, She s.h.i.+nes out of season, like satin in June.

In the country, these planets delightfully glare, Just to show us the object we want isn't there; Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes!

But 'tis in the country alone we can find That happy resource, the relief of the mind, When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake:

Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete To see ladies well-draggled and wet in their feet; But what is all that to the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel?

I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet; That's to come--for as yet I, alas! am a swain, Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.

In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about; But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure.

In town let me live then, in town let me die, For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.

If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!

_Captain C. Morris._

THE DEVONs.h.i.+RE LANE

In a Devons.h.i.+re lane as I trotted along T'other day, much in want of a subject for song; Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain-- Sure marriage is much like a Devons.h.i.+re lane.

In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are in it, It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet; For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round.

But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride; And e'en there 'tis a chance but they get in a pother, And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.

Old Poverty greets them with mendicant looks, And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks, And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pa.s.s, Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her a.s.s.

Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, That they shut up the beauties around from the sight; And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain That marriage is just like a Devons.h.i.+re lane.

But, thinks I, too, these banks within which we are pent, With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent; And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam Looks lovely when deck'd with the comforts of home.

In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows, The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose; And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife Smooths the roughness of care--cheers the winter of life.

Then long be the journey and narrow the way; I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay; And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain, Though marriage is just like a Devons.h.i.+re lane.

_John Marriott._

A SPLENDID FELLOW

Delmonico's is where he dines On quail on toast, washed down with wines; Then lights a twenty-cent cigar With quite a flourish at the bar.

He throws his money down so proud, And ”sets 'em up” for all the crowd; A dozen games of billiards, too, He gaily loses ere he's through.