HAPPY HARROGATE.
(A Traveller's Thank-Offering.)
Faith! I feared I was bound for that general bourne, which we all must approach through one narrow gate,
But, oh! once again I have felt heart and brain hurried up by the waters of Harrogate.
(Here's jolly good luck to them!)
Doctor Black of that place of my bothersome case did not make a muddle or mull, for,
I owe strength of limb, heart and stomach, to him, and those terrible doses of sulphur!
(And stoutly I stuck to them.)
And true gratitude rules at present my mood (though gratitude's rather a rarity),
And that's why I'd say just a good word to-day for an excellent Harrogate charity,
(A regular A-Wonner!)
That fine Yorkshire Home for Incurables! Come, ye who've got from the sulphur springs benefit,
And put in your "mite" in the slot, which will quite hold a pound, yet a shilling or penny fit.
(You just ask the "Stunner!")
The Duchess of Devonshire opened the fête and bazaar, driving over from Bolton,
The Abbey, you know, a most picturesque show, which the tourist has got a firm "holt" on,
(I use the vernacular!)
Her Grace by her kirtle had good Dr. Myrtle, who unto the Tykes introduced her,
And when that she pleaded for funds sorely needed I hoped there were few who refused her.
(That's neat and oracular!)
The good Yorkshire Post says the Home may well boast of much honoured names as subscribers,
And Alderman Fortune (appropriate name!) and Savery (two blameless bribers
Of folks to do duty)
Spake up for the Home. Shall poor invalids roam, in pain, and alone and untended,
When at brave Harrogate it may be their kind fate to be doctored, and fed, and befriended?
(By Wisdom and Beauty!)
Doctors Myrtle and Solly, it makes me feel jolly—by sulphur wells made sulphur weller—
To say a good word! Mr. Joshua Whitworth—Hon. Sec.—is "a jolly good feller"
(And so's Miss M. Smith).
The Leeds Engineers' Band was all there, gay and grand, and Sir—what was it?—ha!—Matthew Dodsworth,
Not lengthily clatters about such Home matters, he knows what a wink or a nod's worth
(In point there is pith).
Oh, Myrtle! Oh, Black! Should I ever come back to that doctor-ruled, sulphur-drenched region,
May potions and baths, and those brisk plateau-paths cure my pains as before, though they're legion
(And spare me that narrow gate).
But—here's to that Home for Incurables! Rome was not built in a day, so they tell us,
But Charity always beginneth at home, and I'd say, if Bath will not be jealous—
That Home is—at Harrogate!