RETROSPECTION

I'd wandered, for a week or more, Through hills, and dells, and doleful green'ry, Lodging at any carnal door, Sustaining life on pork, and scenery. A weary scribe, I'd just let slip My collar, for a short vacation, And started on a walking trip, That cheapest form of dissipation—

And vilest, Oh! confess my pen, That I, prosaic, rather hate your "Ode to a Sky-lark" sort of men; I really am not fond of Nature. Mad longing for a decent meal And decent clothing overcame me; There came a blister on my heel— I gave it up; and who can blame me?

Then wrote my "Pulse of Nature's Heart," Which I procured some little cash on, And quickly packed me to depart In search of "gilded haunts" of fashion, Which I might puff at column rates, To please my host and meet my reckoning; "Base is the slave who"—hesitates When wealth, and pleasure both are beckoning.