LAYS OF MODERN HOME.
THE MUFFIN MAN.
Ah! welcome, through autumnal mist,
For each returning ruralist,
Waif metropolitan, to list
Thy tinkle unto.
No sound of seas or bees or trees
Can Londoners so truly please—
The cheapest epicure with ease
Thy dainties run to.
The simple bell shall, fraught with sense
Of teapot, urn, and hearth intense.
Best herald thee and thy commensurable
crumpet.
Lives there a cit with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
"This is my crisp, my native-bred,
My British muffin!"?
Let picturesque Autolyci
Their cloying foreign dainties cry;
I don't see much to buy, not I,
Such messy stuff in!
Mysterious vagrant, dost prepare
Thyself that inexpensive fare;
Thyself, partake of it—and where?—
The boon thou sellest?
'Tis Home, where'er it be; thy load
Can cheer the pauper's dark abode,
And lack of it, with gloom corrode
The very swellest.