(_For The Mirror._)
"Travellers of that rare tribe, Who've _seen_ the countries
they describe."
HANNAH MORE.
When daudling diligences drag
Their lumbering length along[2] no more--
That odd anomaly!--or wag
Gon call'd, or coach--a misnomer[3]--
That Cerberus three-bodied! and
That Cerberus of music!
Such rattle with their nine-in-hand!
O, Cerbere, an tu sic?
When this, (and of Long Acre wits
To rival this would floor some!)
When this at last the Frenchman quits.
Then! then is the _age d'or_ come!
When coxcomb waiters know their trade,
Nor mix their sauces[4] with cookey's;
When John's no longer chamber maid,
And printed well a book is.
When sorrel, garlic, dirty knife,
_Et cetera_, spoil no dinners--
(The punishment is after life,
Are cooks to punish sinners?)
When bucks are safe, nor streets display
A sea Mediterranean;[5]
When Cloacina wends her way
In streamlet sub-terranean.
When houses, inside well as out,
Are clean,[6] and servants civil;[7]
When dice (if e'er 'twill be I doubt)
Send fewer--to the devil.
When riot ends, and comfort reigns,
Right English comfort[8]--players
Are fetter'd with no rhythmic[9] chains--
French priests repeat French prayers.[10]
When Palais Royal vice subsides,[11]
(Who plays there's a complete ass--)
When footpaths grow on highway sides[12]--
Then! then's the Aurea-Aetas!
There, France, I leave thee.--Jean Taureau![13]
What think'st thou of thy neighbours?
Or (what I own I'd rather know)
What--think'st thou of MY LABOURS?