HOME SWEET HOME!
(By one who believes there's no place like it.)
Sweet to return (for home the Briton hankers,
After an exile of two months or so,
Swiss or Italian). Sweet—to find your Banker's
Balance getting low.
Sweet to return from Como or Sorrento.
Meshed in their shimmering net of drowsy sheen,
Into a climate that you know not when to
Really call serene.
Sweet to return from hostelries whose waiters
Rush to fulfil your slightest word or whim,
Back to a cook who passionately caters
Not for you, but him.
Sweet to return from Table-d'Hôtes disgusting
(Oh, how you grumbled at the Sauce Romaine!)
Fresh to the filmy succulence incrusting
Solid joints again.
Sweet to return from Innkeepers demurely
Pricing your candle at a franc unshamed,
Back to a land where perquisites are surely
Never, never claimed.
Sweet to return from bargaining, disputing,
Pourboires and Trinkgelds grudgingly bestowed—
Unto the simple charioteers of Tooting,
Or the Cromwell Road.
Sweet to return from "all those dreadful tourists,"
Such mixed society as chance allots,
E'en to the social splendour of the purists
Of those sparkling spots.
Sweet to return to bills and fogs and duty!
(Some of the latter at our Custom House)
Sweet, after smaller game, to hail the beauty
Of the British mouse!
Sweet too the sight of cockchafer; and sweet'll
Welcome the pilgrim, doomed too long to roam,
England's tried sentinel, the black, black beetle
With his "Home, sweet Home!"
LONDON'S DILEMMA; OR, "FAIR ROSAMOND" UP TO DATE.
When as VICTORIA rulde this land,
The firste of that greate name,
Faire Loundonne, of the cockneyes lovde,
Attaynd to power and fame.
Most peerlesse was her splendoure founde,
Her favour, and her face;
Yet was there one thing marred her weale,
And wroughte her dire disgrace.
Her dower was all that showered golde,
Like Danaë's, could her lende,
Yet dwelt she in the ogreish holde
Of fell and fearsome fiende.
Yea Loundonne Towne, faire Loundonne Towne,
Her name was calléd so,
To whom the Witch Monopolie
Was known a deadlye foe.
Now when ye Countie Councile woke,
And FARRER rose to fame,
With envious heart Monopolie
To Loundonne straightway came.
"Cast off from thee those schemes," said she,
"That greate and costlye bee,
And drinke thou up this deadlye cup,
Which I have brought to thee!"
"Take pitty on my awkward plight!"
Faire Loundonne she dyd crye,
"And lett me not with poison stronge
Enforcéd be to dye!"
Then out and laught that wicked Witch:
"If that you will not drinke,
This dagger choose! Though you be riche,
You'll shrinke from that, I thinke."
The dagger was a magic blayde,
With figures graven o'er,
Which, as you gazed thereon, did seeme
To growe to more and more.
"Nay," quothe faire Loundonne, "'tis but choyce
'Twixt dyvill and deepe sea!
I praye thee take thyself awaye,
And leave the jobbe to me!"
But nothynge could this grasping Witch
Therewith appeaséd be.
The cup of deadlye poison stronge,
As she knelt on her knee,
She gave this comely dame to drinke,
Who tooke it in her hande,
Then from her bended knees arose,
And on her feet did stande.
And casting Council-wards her eyes,
She did for rescue call,
When—[Fragmentes further may be founde,
At presente thys is alle!
If close researche, as welle we hope,
Perchaunce complete ye texte,
This ballade, as scribes saye, shall be
"Continued in our next!"]