Sweet to return from Table-d’Hotes disgusting
    (Oh, how you grumbled at the Sauce Romaine!)
  Fresh to the filmy succulence incrusting
      Solid joints again.

  Sweet to return from Innkeepers demurely
    Pricing your candle at a franc unshamed,
  Back to a land where perquisites are surely
      Never, never claimed.

  Sweet to return from bargaining, disputing,
    Pourboires and Trinkgelds grudgingly bestowed—­
  Unto the simple charioteers of Tooting,
      Or the Cromwell Road.

  Sweet to return from “all those dreadful tourists,”
    Such mixed society as chance allots,
  E’en to the social splendour of the purists
      Of those sparkling spots.

  Sweet to return to bills and fogs and duty! 
    (Some of the latter at our Custom House)
  Sweet, after smaller game, to hail the beauty
        Of the British mouse!

  Sweet too the sight of cockchafer; and sweet’ll
    Welcome the pilgrim, doomed too long to roam,
  England’s tried sentinel, the black, black beetle
      With his “Home, sweet Home!”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  LONDON’S DILEMMA; OR, “FAIR ROSAMOND” UP TO DATE.

(Lately-discovered Fragments of a valuable and interesting “Variant” of the old Ballad Story.)]

* * * * *

  When as VICTORIA rulde this land,
    The firste of that greate name,
  Faire Loundonne, of the cockneyes lovde,
    Attaynd to power and fame.

  Most peerlesse was her splendoure founde,
    Her favour, and her face;
  Yet was there one thing marred her weale,
    And wroughte her dire disgrace.

Her dower was all that showered golde,
Like Danae’s, could her lende,
Yet dwelt she in the ogreish holde
Of fell and fearsome fiende.

Yea Loundonne Towne, faire Loundonne Towne,
Her name was called so,
To whom the Witch Monopolie
Was known a deadlye foe.

* * * * *

Now when ye Countie Councile woke,
And FARRER rose to fame,
With envious heart Monopolie
To Loundonne straightway came.

“Cast off from thee those schemes,” said she,
“That greate and costlye bee,
And drinke thou up this deadlye cup,
Which I have brought to thee!”

  “Take pitty on my awkward plight!”
    Faire Loundonne she dyd crye,
  “And lett me not with poison stronge
    Enforced be to dye!”

  Then out and laught that wicked Witch: 
    “If that you will not drinke,
  This dagger choose!  Though you be riche,
    You’ll shrinke from that, I thinke.”

  The dagger was a magic blayde,
    With figures graven o’er,
  Which, as you gazed thereon, did seeme
    To growe to more and more.