A MOUNTAIN RAMBLER

(By a Returned Traveller)

I've scanned and penned an Ode on

Thy snowy glories, Snowdon

My honeymoon with Helen,

Was spent near "dark" Helvellyn,

Afar from all the beau monde

I've rambled round Ben Lomond,

At noontide on Ben Nevis,

I've roved and read Sir Bevis,

I've stretched each tired thin limb on

Thy summit, O Plinlimmon,

And once I tore my breeks

On Macgillycuddy's Reeks.

Those glorious mountain scalps,

The tiptops of the Alps,

I've seen—their pines and passes,

Their glaciers and crevasses—

With fools, philosophers and wits,

I've scrambled up the Ortler Spitz,

Made sketches on St. Gothard,

Like Turner and like Stothard,

And with my cara sposa

Ascended Monte Rosa:

But not content with Europe,

I've roamed with staff and new rope

As far away as Ararat,

Where savants say there's ne'er a rat;

The Kuen Lun and Thian Shan

I know as well as any man;

I've boiled my evening kettle

On Popocatapetl,

And on the highest Andes

I've sodas mixed and brandies;

I've slumbered snug and cosey

On silvery Potosi;

I've stood on Peter Botto,

A rather lonely spot;

And—crowning feat of all

My mountaineerings on this ball—

I've smoked—O weed for ever blest!

My pipe upon Mount Everest.

And now my ramble's over,

Here's Shakspeare's Cliff and Dover!

All Alpine risks and chances,

All Ultramontane fancies,

I've put away and done with;

I'll stay my wife and son with,

And never more will roam

From Primrose Hill and home.