Sir Algernon Borthwick, who edits the Post,
Had received the first news from the opposite coast;
And the maids of our isles and the maids of the States
In special editions were told of their fates.
“Peace with honour” at once was proclaimed ’twixt the fair
(As neither had won what did either set care?);
And the Duke was much praised on both sides by the Press,
And the little French Duchess is quite a success.
To the Fog.
THOUSAND welcomes let us sing
To that dear old November fog
Which harbingers the days that bring
The early gas, the flaming log.
Ah! well we know, sweet fog, when first
You wrap the town in your embrace,
The winter from its shell has burst,
And come to bless the human race.
I love the merry winter when
The day is darker than the night,
For then, contented in my den,
I sit beside the fire and write.
I love the fog that wraps in gloom
My second-class suburban square;
For then within my dingy room
I light the gas, and let it flare.
I hate the dreary days and love
The nights that shut the black world out;
And so I prize, all things above,
The fog that puts the day to rout.