Come, Phyllis, for the season is already on the wane,
And the question of our holiday perplexes once again;
Now every jaded Londoner fresh stores of vigour seeks,
Our problem is how best to pass these few and fleeting weeks.
As one by one each watering-place we call to mind in turn
As promptly some objection to each one we discern;
Thus Scarborough's too chilly, and Ilfracombe too hot,
And this too near, and that too dear, that sandy and this not.
The Alps are always overrun and crowded as Cheapside,
And the garlic-reeking South I own I never could abide;
The _Bads_--Aix, Vichy, Taunus, Homburg, Carlsbad, Neuenahr,
Are either vulgar, crowded, dull, expensive, or too far.
Oh, for some new and lone retreat, nor far away nor near,
With lovely sights to charm the eye, soft sounds to soothe the ear;
Where vexed and wearied spirits, such as yours and mine, might rest,
And find in life new purpose, in its joys unwonted zest;
Some Aidenn, some Elysium of rapturous delight,
Where peace should reign unbroken from the dawn to fall of night!
Yet since for the impossible in vain we yearn, 'tis clear,
It will end no doubt as usual, in "Good old Margate," dear.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THE _VALET_ OF THE NILE"