And thus it is though woods are green,
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford's bowling!



TO CORRESPONDENTS



My Postman, though I fear thy tread,
And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
'Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,
MY mortal foe is much severer, -
The Unknown Correspondent, who,
With undefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
Perplexes literary men.

From Pentecost and Ponder's End
They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,
The people of the Shetlands send
No inconsiderable quota;
They write for AUTOGRAPHS; in vain,
In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,
They write that Allan Quatermain
Is not at all the book for Brora.