Roses All The Way

['Mr. Frank Lascelles left London yesterday for Calcutta. As he entered the railway carriage at Victoria, Lady Jane Kenney-Herbert handed him a basket of roses.'--The Times.]

Each year in vain I take the train To Dinard, Trouville or Le Touquet; No lady fair is ever there To speed me with a bouquet; No maiden on my brow imposes A snood of Gloire de Dijon roses!

No purple phlox adorns the locks Of scanty hair that fringe my cranium; No garlands deck my shapely neck With jasmine or geranium. I travel, like a social pariah, Without a single calceolaria!

Though up and down I 'train' to town, Each day, with fellow-clerk or broker, No female hand has ever planned To trim my third-class 'smoker,' To wreathe the rack with scarlet dahlias, Or drape the seats with pink azaleas!

Let others envy wealthy men --The Rothschilds, Vanderbilts or Cassels-- I'd much prefer, I must aver, Like lucky Mr. Lascelles, To travel well supplied with posies Of (on the 'Underground') Tube-roses!