TEMPORA MUTANTUR.

There was a time I loved to row Upon the Thames, and pitch my tent On reedy islands lying low, Without a thought of tax or rent. But if I sleep in puddles now I get rheumatics, gout and cramp. The Thames has grown—I know not how— So damp. There was a time I loved to climb From morn till eve, from eve to morn, Those snow-capped Alpine peaks sublime, The Rigi and the Matterhorn. Now, Ludgate Hill is quite as much As I can do, or Hornsey Rise— Mountains, you see, have grown to such A size. There was a time I loved to flit To Margate with its German bands, And split my sides at nigger-wit, Or ride on donkeys on the sands. Now, niggers have got coarse and low, And if I mount on steeds, they cough, Or wink, or wag their ears and throw Me off. But now my nerves are all a wreck I'll seek some less exacting sport In Regent's Park, nor risk my neck In foolish pranks of that mad sort. I'll find some steady man who owns A safe reliable Bath-chair, And tip him well to wheel my bones With care.