Known of men who in the old time lodged in hollows of the rocks,
Ere those Circe’s styes, the Club-huts, harboured touristdom in flocks.
There you lie beside your porters in tobacco fumes enfurled,
And think more of cold plum-pudding than “the glories of the world”;
There you ponder with your fellows on the little left “to do,”
Plotting darkly Expeditions that may, partially, be New;
Boasting lightly, while the brightly-beading Bouvier brims the glasses,
How you’ll “romp up” avalanche tracks and you’ll rollick in crevasses;
Dreaming fondly of the glory that such “azure feats” must get,
When your guide narrates the story in the Grindelmatt Gazette;