Volume 107 — THE VACUOUS TIME.

Let Cowes delight in barques that bite Their furrows o'er the fallow main, Careering round the Isle of Wight, And ultimately home again. Some men may go to Westward Ho! And potter gravely through the greens, Or lease a little moor, and blow The harmless grouse to smithereens; Or flit across to fjord and fos, And captivate the toothsome trout Or hack initials on a schloss, And chuck their orange-peel about. Let some repair to regions where, Beneath the usual Southern moon, The nigger in his native lair Raises the Alabama coon. A few may fly to far Shanghai, Or Argentine, if they prefer, And earn a paltry pittance by Reporting facts that don't occur. While others hail the Dover mail, Humming the airs of quaint Yvette, And prove upon a private scale What life is like à la Villette; Or haply land upon a strand Where trim grisettes are clustered thick, Watch the promiscuous bathers, and Observe that things are passing chic. I know of lots of pretty spots Where people go to get the view; It is indeed, as Dr. Watts Sublimely said, their nature too. But there are some for whom the hum Of toil habitually throbs; Adhesive as a patent gum They stick to their respective jobs. When heather blows, and houses close, And London is described as bare, (Though some odd millions, I suppose, Remain invariably there); Pounding away serenely, they With pious humour smile at fate;— I make allusion, need one say, To members of the Fourth Estate. In deadly dearth of copy worth Inserting they resort to Mars, Or Marriage-failure here on earth, As matter for expansive "pars." For them the prize sea-worms arise Fresh from eleven months of sleep, Flatter a Correspondent's eyes, And fairly hurtle through the deep. And still they choose from subtle clues To weave their exegetic wit, Telling the nation all the news, And even what to think of it. Meanwhile afloat, or far remote, The public who attains to miss The paper for the day can dote On ignorance akin to bliss.