The Contrast

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THE CONTRAST

IN London I never know what I'd be at,

Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that;
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan,
And life seems a blessing too happy for man.

But the country, Lord help me! sets all matters right,
So calm and composing from morning to night;
Oh, it settles the spirits when nothing is seen
But an ass on a common, a goose on a green!

In town, if it rain, why it damps not our hope,
The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope;
What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days?
It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways.

In the country, what bliss, when it rains in the fields,
To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields;
Or go crawling from window to window, to see
A pig on a dunghill or crow on a tree.

In town, we've no use for the skies overhead,
For when the sun rises then we go to bed;
And as to that old-fashioned virgin the moon,
She shines out of season, like satin in June.

In the country, these planets delightfully glare,
Just to show us the object we want isn't there;
Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise,
To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes!

But 'tis in the country alone we can find
That happy resource, the relief of the mind,
When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make,
And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake:

Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete
To see ladies well-draggled and wet in their feet;
But what is all that to the transport we feel
When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel?

I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet; That's to come-for as yet I, alas! am a swain, Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.

In the country, if Cupid should find a man out,
The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about;
But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure,
Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure.

In town let me live then, in town let me die,
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!
Captain C. Morris.

THE DEVONSHIRE LANE

IN a Devonshire lane as I trotted along
T'other day, much in want of a subject for song;
Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain-
Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.

In the first place, 'tis long, and when, once you are in it,
It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet;
For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found,
Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round.

But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide,
For two are the most that together can ride;

And e'en there 'tis a chance but they get in a pother,
And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.

Old Poverty greets them with mendicant looks,
And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks,
And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pass,
Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.

A Splendid Fellow

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Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right,
That they shut up the beauties around from the sight;
And hence, you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain
That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

But, thinks I, too, these banks within which we are pent,
With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent;
And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam
Looks lovely when deck'd with the comforts of home.

In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose;

And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife

Smooths the roughness of care-cheers the winter of life.

Then long be the journey and narrow the way;
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;
And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

John Marriott.

A SPLENDID FELLOW

DELMONICO'S is where he dines

On quail on toast, washed down with wines;
Then lights a twenty-cent cigar

With quite a flourish at the bar.

He throws his money down so proud,
And "sets 'em up" for all the crowd;
A dozen games of billiards, too,
He gaily loses ere he's through.

Oh, he's a splendid fellow, quite;
He pays his debts with such delight,
And often boasts of-to his clan-
His honour as a gentleman.

But when this splendid fellow's wife,
Who leads at home a frugal life
Begs for a little change to buy
A dress, he looks at her so wry,

That she, alarmed at his distress,
Gives him a kiss and sweet caress,
And says, "Don't worry so, my dear,
"I'll turn the dress I made last year."
H. C. Dodge.

IF

If a man could live a thousand years,
When half his life had passed,

He might, by strict economy,

A fortune have amassed.

Then having gained some common-sense,
And knowledge, too, of life,

He could select the woman who
Would make him a true wife.

But as it is, man hasn't time
To even pay his debts,
And weds to be acquainted with
The woman whom he gets.

H. C. Dodge.

ACCEPTED AND WILL APPEAR

ONE evening while reclining

In my easy-chair, repining

O'er the lack of true religion, and the dearth of common

sense,

A solemn visaged lady,

Who was surely on the shady

Side of thirty, entered proudly, and to crush me did com

mence:

The Little Vagabond

"I sent a poem here, sir,"

Said the lady, growing fiercer,

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"And the subject which I'd chosen, you remember, sir, was 'Spring ';

But, although I've scanned your paper,

Sir, by sunlight, gas, and taper,

I've discovered of that poem not a solitary thing."

She was muscular and wiry,

And her temper sure was fiery,

And I knew to pacify her I would have to-fib like fun.
So I told her ere her verses,

Which were great, had come to-bless us,

We'd received just sixty-one on "Spring," of which we'd printed one.

And I added, "We've decided

That they'd better be divided

Among the years that follow-one to each succeeding Spring. So your work, I'm pleased to mention,

Will receive our best attention

In the year of nineteen-forty, when the birds begin to sing."

Parmenas Mix.

THE LITTLE VAGABOND

DEAR mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;

But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm. Besides, I can tell where I am used well;

The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell.

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,

And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,

We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day,

Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;