Then followed one hour of converse,
And then came the rushing rain,—
So we four comrades parted,
Never to meet again!
* * * * *
Thirty long years—just thirty
Since then have passed away.
Alas! those jovial comrades,
To-night, ah where are they?
The wild Atlantic billow
Rolls over Thomas Green;
And in a Dorset Churchyard
John Wright's name may be seen.—
And brave old Rheinhold Werder
Dropt to a Chassepôt shot,
Amongst the trees that shadow
The road past Gravelotte.
And I, I only linger;
And thinking of them to-night,
Unconsciously pull my whiskers,
So "sandy" once,—now white.
Mr. Chutney's Confession.
Dame Nature, that to flowers
Gives sunshine, dew, and showers,
To me hath given much billing and much cooing.
And now my head grows gray,
I can but sigh and say
That wooing almost always ends in ruing.
Shrive me, good Reader!—oft
I've loved. My heart's too soft.
"I love not man the less, but woman more."
In each new form and face
I see some special grace:
I've loved too many girls——Confiteor!
Confiteor!—One sees
Those little humbugs, bees,
Flit fast from flower to flower, their honey hiving;
It has been mine to seek
Rose lip and lily cheek.
Confound it, yes! I need no end of shriving!