BEAUTIES OF BOLOGNA
Not those, along the route prescribed
To see them in a hurry,
Church, palace, gallery, described
By worthy Mr. Murray.
Nor those detailed as well by whom
But Baedeker, the German;
The choir, the nave, the font, the tomb,
The pulpit for the sermon.
No tourist traps which tire you out,
A never-ending worry;
Most interesting things, no doubt,
Described by Mr. Murray.
Nor yet, O gastronomic mind—
In cookery a boss, sage
In recipes—you will not find,
I mean Bologna sausage.
Not beauties, which, perhaps, you class
With your own special curry;
Not beauties, which we must not pass
If led by Mr. Murray.
I sing—alas, how very ill!—
Those beauties of the city,
The praise of whose dark eyes might fill
A much more worthy ditty.
O, Ladies of Bologna, who
The coldest heart might flurry,
I much prefer to study you
Than Baedeker or Murray.
Those guide-book sights no longer please;
Three hours still, tre ore,
I have to lounge and look at these
Bellissime signore.
Then slow express—South Western goes
Much faster into Surrey—
Will take me off to other shows
Described by Mr. Murray.
But still, Signore, there will be,
By your sweet faces smitten,
One Englishman who came to see
What Baedeker has written.
Let Baedeker then see the lot
In frantic hurry-scurry.
I've found some beauties which are not
Described by Mr. Murray.
Overheard at Chamonix.—Stout British Matron (in a broad British accent, to a slim diligence driver). Êtes-vous la diligence?
Driver. Non, madame, mais j'en suis le cocher.
Matron (with conviction). C'est la même chose; gardez pour moi trois places dans votre intérieur demain.
