Volume 107 — RANELAGH IN RAIN.

How sweet this road is, fringed by hedgerow elm, Where peeps in May the hawthorn's snowy bud, A fairy place that seems Titania's realm! By Jove, what mud! How sweet this turf, as soft as finest moss! Such "gazon anglais" we alone can get. Oh hang it, no! I cannot walk across, It's soaking wet! How sweet that lake, where gentle eddies play! But all around seems lake, through rainfall dim. Why want a pond, when on dry (!) land to-day We almost swim? How sweet—to get a Hansom home again, And leave this aguish, rheumatic damp! I do not love thee, Ranelagh, in rain, Beneath a gamp.