I roam beneath a foreign sky,
That sky is cloudless, warm and clear;
And everything is glad but I;--
But ah! my heart is far from here.
They bid me look on forests green,
And boundless prairies stretching far;
But I rejoice not in their sheen,
And longing turn to Temple Bar.
They bid me list the torrent's roar,
In all its foaming, bounding pride;
But I, I only think the more
On living torrents in Cheapside!
They bid me mark the mighty stream,
Which Mississippi rolls to sea;
But then I sink in pensive dream,
And turn my thoughts, dear Thames, to thee!
They bid me note the mountains high,
Whose snow-capp'd peaks my prospect end;
I only heave a secret sigh--
To Ludgate Hill my wishes tend.
They taunt me with our denser air,
And fogs so thick you scarce can see;
Then, yellow fog, I will declare,
Though strange to say, I long for thee.
And everything in this bright clime
But serves to turn my thoughts to thee!
Thou, London, of an earlier time,
Oh! when shall I return to thee?
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Customer._ "That dog I bought last week has turned out
very savage. He's already bitten a little girl and a policeman, and----"
_Dealer._ "Lor'! how 'e's changed, mum! He wasn't at all particular what
he ate 'ere!"]
* * * * *