They rate the world as a gruesome place,
Where fair looks fade to a skull’s grimace,—
As a pilgrimage they would fain get done—
Do John and Jane with their worthless son.
THE CURATE’S KINDNESS
A WORKHOUSE IRONY
I
I THOUGHT they’d be strangers aroun’ me,
But she’s to be there!
Let me jump out o’ waggon and go back and drown me
At Pummery or Ten-Hatches Weir.