THE VACUOUS TIME.

["Sea-serpents are now in season, and running very large."—The Unlicensed Victualler.]

Let Cowes delight in barques that bite

Their furrows o'er the fallow main,

Careering round the Isle of Wight,

And ultimately home again.

Some men may go to Westward Ho!

And potter gravely through the greens,

Or lease a little moor, and blow

The harmless grouse to smithereens;

Or flit across to fjord and fos,

And captivate the toothsome trout

Or hack initials on a schloss,

And chuck their orange-peel about.

Let some repair to regions where,

Beneath the usual Southern moon,

The nigger in his native lair

Raises the Alabama coon.

A few may fly to far Shanghai,

Or Argentine, if they prefer,

And earn a paltry pittance by

Reporting facts that don't occur.

While others hail the Dover mail,

Humming the airs of quaint Yvette,

And prove upon a private scale

What life is like à la Villette;

Or haply land upon a strand

Where trim grisettes are clustered thick,

Watch the promiscuous bathers, and

Observe that things are passing chic.

I know of lots of pretty spots

Where people go to get the view;

It is indeed, as Dr. Watts

Sublimely said, their nature too.

But there are some for whom the hum

Of toil habitually throbs;

Adhesive as a patent gum

They stick to their respective jobs.

When heather blows, and houses close,

And London is described as bare,

(Though some odd millions, I suppose,

Remain invariably there);

Pounding away serenely, they

With pious humour smile at fate;—

I make allusion, need one say,

To members of the Fourth Estate.

In deadly dearth of copy worth

Inserting they resort to Mars,

Or Marriage-failure here on earth,

As matter for expansive "pars."

For them the prize sea-worms arise

Fresh from eleven months of sleep,

Flatter a Correspondent's eyes,

And fairly hurtle through the deep.

And still they choose from subtle clues

To weave their exegetic wit,

Telling the nation all the news,

And even what to think of it.

Meanwhile afloat, or far remote,

The public who attains to miss

The paper for the day can dote

On ignorance akin to bliss.