TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
There was a time I loved to row
Upon the Thames, and pitch my tent
On reedy islands lying low,
Without a thought of tax or rent.
But if I sleep in puddles now
I get rheumatics, gout and cramp.
The Thames has grown—I know not how—
So damp.
There was a time I loved to climb
From morn till eve, from eve to morn,
Those snow-capped Alpine peaks sublime,
The Rigi and the Matterhorn.
Now, Ludgate Hill is quite as much
As I can do, or Hornsey Rise—
Mountains, you see, have grown to such
A size.
There was a time I loved to flit
To Margate with its German bands,
And split my sides at nigger-wit,
Or ride on donkeys on the sands.
Now, niggers have got coarse and low,
And if I mount on steeds, they cough,
Or wink, or wag their ears and throw
Me off.
But now my nerves are all a wreck
I'll seek some less exacting sport
In Regent's Park, nor risk my neck
In foolish pranks of that mad sort.
I'll find some steady man who owns
A safe reliable Bath-chair,
And tip him well to wheel my bones
With care.