[Illustration]
Ah! welcome, through autumnal mist,
For each returning ruralist,
Waif metropolitan, to list
Thy tinkle unto.
No sound of seas or bees or trees
Can Londoners so truly please--
The cheapest epicure with ease
Thy dainties run to.
They need not, like the fruits on sticks,
The fruits Venetian boyhood licks,
A voice with operatic tricks
Their praise to trumpet.
The simple bell shall, fraught with sense
Of teapot, urn, and hearth intense.
Best herald thee and thy commensurable
crumpet.
Lives there a cit with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
"This is my crisp, my native-bred,
My British muffin!"?
Let picturesque Autolyci
Their cloying foreign dainties cry;
_I_ don't see much to buy, not I,
Such messy stuff in!
Mysterious vagrant, dost prepare
Thyself that inexpensive fare;
Thyself, partake of it--and _where?_--
The boon thou sellest?
'Tis Home, where'er it be; thy load
Can cheer the pauper's dark abode,
And lack of it, with gloom corrode
The very swellest.
There are who deem it vulgar fun
For dressy bachelors to run
Themselves to stop thee; I'm not one
So nicely silly:
_I_'m not ashamed to track thy way,
And test the triumphs of thy tray,
And bring them back in paper, say,
To Piccadilly.
Yes, heedless of a gibing town,
To hand them PHYLLIS, sit me down,
And wait, till they come up in brown
And glossy sections.
Then, brew my cup--the best Ceylon--
And, bidding care and chill begone,
Concentre heart and mouth upon
Thy warm perfections.
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