[To perambulate, v.n., in German spazieren; in French, se promener; in Italian, passeggiare.]
Johann Schmidt. "Ach! vat a bitty, Mister Chones! Zen ve must not go therein to Berampulate?"
SONG OF THE IMPECUNIOUS BARD.
How many woes, the heavens beneath,
The sons of men assume!
For some, they say, are boomed to death,
While some have ne'er a boom.
And some like rockets rise and fall—
A sadder lot have they
Whose rockets never mount at all,
But fizz and die away.
My sun is sinking to the West—
It did not fairly rise.
In velvet coats I can't invest,
Nor in Byronic ties.
The very cheapest "shag" I smoke,
My thirst on water quench—
My latest sixpence when I broke,
I knew I must retrench.
Upon a simple scone I lunch,
Or luncheon I ignore—
I cannot even buy a Punch—
A most terrific bore!
But yet at Fleet Street, 85,
From gazing none retard,
And solace still may thence derive
An impecunious Bard.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
There was a time I loved to row
Upon the Thames, and pitch my tent
On reedy islands lying low,
Without a thought of tax or rent.
But if I sleep in puddles now
I get rheumatics, gout and cramp.
The Thames has grown—I know not how—
So damp.