In this brook that flows lazily by I believe that one tittlebat dwells, For I saw something jump at a fly As I lay here and long'd for Bow Bells. Yonder cattle are grazing-it's clear From the bob of their heads up and down ;— But I cannot love cattle down here As I should if I met them in town. Poets say that each pastoral breeze Bears a melody laden with spells; But I don't find the music in these That I find in the tone of Bow Bells. I am partial to trees, as a rule; And the rose is a beautiful flower. (Yes, I once read a ballad at school Of a rose that was wash'd in a shower.) As when sold within sound of Bow Bells. No; I've tried it in vain once or twice, And I've thoroughly made up my mind That the country is all very nice But I'd much rather mix with my kind. Yes; to-day-if I meet with a train I will fly from these hills and these dells; And to-night I will sleep once again (Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells. THE PLOT OF A ROMANCE. AY! there they stood on the self-same spot, And, it might be, the self-same day; But one was thinking and one was not, Let the proud Earl feast in his gilded halls, Rings ever and aye round the castle-walls For the gory head of a patriot sire There's an empty chair in the ingle-nook, There's a ghastly stain in the Domesday book, And a mystery shroudeth all. Old Peter the Beadsman breathes a sigh Where the bones of the best and the bravest lie, All under a milk-white stone. But winter and summer there lies a blot On the scutcheon of grim Fitz-Urse; And the two stood there, on the self-same spot, As I said in the opening verse. |