MRS. A.'S AT HOME.

An awful night! I do believe it's snowing! Who from his "ain fireside" would wish to roam? Only a fool would go—and yet I'm going— To Mrs. A.'s At Home! The burden of At Homes! The bore of dressing! I must be wielding razor, brush, and comb (The snow has almost stopped—Come, that's a blessing!) For Mrs. A.'s At Home. Why am I going? Well, to me the reason Looms large and clear as Paul's cathedral dome: The reason's—Nancy, whom I met last season At Mrs. A.'s At Home. Hi, hansom! Off we go! Although sweet Nancy Since then has vanished like a fairy gnome, Yet I shall see her (sweet conceit) in fancy At Mrs. A.'s At Home. "Thankee, my lord!"—he's earned that extra shilling, We've come along, the horse is flecked with foam— Slowly upstairs I go, the rooms are filling At Mrs. A.'s At Home. Then—why, good heavens! No! It isn't fancy!— "Can it be you? I heard you were in Rome. Just fancy meeting you"—the real Nancy!— "At Mrs. A.'s At Home!" To-night and Nancy—rhyme excuses fiction— Might, if I sang them, fill a ponderous tome: A perfect night! I breathe a benediction On Mrs. A.'s At Home!