THE CRY OF THE CITY CLERK.

I knew, I knew it would not last—

'Twas hard, 'twas hopeful, but 'tis past.

Ah! ever thus, from boyhood's hour,

I've seen my fondest hopes decay.

I never trusted Jack Frost's power,

But Jack Frost did my trust betray.

I never bought a pair of skates

On Friday—I am in the law—

But, ere I started with my mates

On Saturday, 'twas sure to thaw!

Now, too—the prospect seemed divine—

They skated yesterday, I knew,

And now, just as I'm going to dine,

The sun comes out, the skies grow blue,

Ere we at Wimbledon can meet,

Those horrid gaps!—that treacherous sludge!

I shall not get one skimmer fleet.

After my long and sloppy trudge.

No go! One more lost Saturday!

To skating's joys I'm still a stranger.

I sit and curse the melting ray,

In which my hopes all melt away—

It means soft ice, chill slop, and—"Danger!!!"