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OME hither and listen, whoever
Than well-dressed and well-booted and gloved,
By the women who loves to be loved:
Her good word in return for a gay word,
Or an anecdote worthy of Hayward.
And hither, you sweet schoolroom beauties,
Who only at Easter came out!
dear little duties
And where you may venture to please ;
And what you should say about Tupper,
And what of the cattle disease ;
Why he did not move the Address,
On reading his squibs in the Press.
To show yourselves modest and smart, And, if you speak hastily, set you
Three pages of Hansard by heart. Whenever with quoting you bore us
(As pert young Harrovians will) Your last repetition from Horace,
You'll write out a chapter of Mill. But if you can think of a hit
That's brilliant and not very blue, We'll greet it by piping “Tu-whit," And mark it by hooting “ Tu-whoo.”
GEORGE OTTO TREVELYAN.
N London I never know what I'd be at,
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,
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 dung-hill, or crow on a tree. In London if folks ill together are put, A bow may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut; We change without end; and if lazy or ill, All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. In the country you're naild, like a pale in the
park, To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in
the ark; And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down, You reach death ere the doctor can reach you
In London how easy we visit and meet,
our treat ; Our morning's a round of good humour'd delight, And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night.
In the country, how sprightly! our visits we make Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a
fog, And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog.
In London the spirits are cheerful and light,
But how gay in the country! what summer delight To be waiting for winter from morning to night! Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee To relish the sweet rural subjects we see.
In town we've no use for the skies overhead,
In the country these planets delightfully glare
But 'tis in the country alone we can find
Indeed, I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete
the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an
I have heard tho', 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.
Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among
trees, And chatter their transports in groves, if they
please : But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, And for groves, O! a good grove of chimneys for me. 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
I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy,
an eye ;
In town let me live then, in town let me die,
EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT
ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE
S some fond Virgin, whom her mother's