The Arrival.
All blessèd boons, though coming late,
To those who wait them issue forth,
For skill in sequel works with fate,
And draws the veil from hidden worth.
He comes, great keeper of our tin,
He is no Tory Hurlo-Thrumbo!
A fairy Prince, with triple chin,
And heavy-footed as poor Jumbo!
He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks,
Though he has heard of Sleeping Beauties.
He hath been dreaming many weeks
Of Income Tax, Stamps, and Death Duties.
He'd charmed the party with his talk
Of Graduation; now grey fear
Knocks at his ribs, his cheek's like chalk,
With thoughts of Revenue for the Year.
More close and close his footsteps wind,
The next year's Budget on his heart.
From Stamps and Liquor will he find
Big plums? Will rich taxpayers "part"?
Here's sleeping Trade! "Lor! what a lark!"
He thinks. "To wake her—were a spree!
A kiss may lift those lashes dark;
She can't resist a buss—from Me!"