HINT FOR THE ALPINE SEASON.
(Adapted freely from the Old Royal Repartee.)
Middle-aged would-be Mountaineer (loq.).
Fain would I climb, but,—well, my belt's too small.
Mr. Punch (in reply).
If your girth grows, Sir, do not climb at all!
Your Alpen-stock put by, ere the world mock.
And you become an (Alpine) Laughing-stock.
Though Alps on Alps arise you stop in bed,
And let a younger man yon glaciers tread.
The dangers of steep slides and deep crevasses
Are not for elderly donkeys, but young asses.
The Himalayas woo you still to pant on?
Well, treat 'em as you would an arch young wanton,
Think of your legs, the boys, the girls, the Missus,
And do not play the elderly Narcissus.
To witch the world with noble "Icemanship"
Is tempting, yes, but if you chance to slip,
Your bones a fathomless abyss may strew,
An Alpine death,—and they'll all pine for you.
Man after fifty fits not the sublime,
So stay at home nor seek a foreign climb.
The plague of guide, and chum, and wife and daughter,
Is Senex who will climb and didn't oughter.
Stick to your Alpine Club, but like old foodles,
Pay, stop at home, and play at whist at Boodles'.
Decline with the old mania to be bitten,
And you will own this tip is diamond-written
(Like good Queen Bess's repartee on glass),
And that you're saved from being an old ass!