Volume 107 — A RIVERSIDE LAMENT.

In my garden, where the rose By the hundred gaily blows, And the river freshly flows Close to me, I can spend the summer day In a quite idyllic way; Simply charming, you would say, Could you see. I am far from stuffy town, Where the soots meander down, And the air seems—being brown— Close to me. I am far from rushing train; Bradshaw does not bore my brain, Nor, comparatively plain, A B C. To my punt I can repair, If the weather's fairly fair, But one grievance I have there; Close to me, As I sit and idly dream, Clammy corpses ever seem Floating down the placid stream To the sea. Though the boats that crowd the lock— Such an animated block!— Bring gay damsels, quite a flock, Close to me, Yet I heed not tasty togs, When, as motionless as logs, Float defunct and dismal dogs There aussi. As in Egypt at a feast, With each party comes at least One sad corpse, departed beast, Close to me; Till a Canon might go off, Till a Dean might swear or scoff, Or a Bishop—tip-top toff In a see. Floating to me from above, If it stick, with gentle shove, To my neighbour, whom I love, Close to me, I send on each gruesome guest. Should I drag it out to rest In my garden? No, I'm blest! Non, merci!