A Lay of the Morte Saison,
MY Brown has gone away to Greece?
My Robinson to Rome;
My Jones was off to-day for Nice,
And I am still at home.
One friend is on the Tiber,
Another on the Rhone,
The third a bock-imbiber—
And I am all alone.
The Row is dull as dull can be;
Deserted is the Drive;
The glass that stood at eighty-three
Stands now at sixty-five.
The summer days are over;
The town, ah, me! has flown
Through Dover or to clover—
And I am all alone.
I hate the mention of Lucerne,
Of Baden and the Rhine;.
I hate the Oberland of Berne,
And Alp and Apennine.
I hate the wilds of Norway,
As here I sit and moan—
With none to cross my doorway—
For I am all alone.
Brick streets do not a prison make,
Nor hollow squares a cell;
And so for Memory's pleasant sake,
I 'll bear my sorrows well.
My lyre may lose the gladness
That mark'd its former tone;
But, oh! respect my sadness—
For I am all alone.