Volume 93 — SUMMER BOATING SONG.

Sun on the slumbrous meadows, Sun on the sleeping trees; Massy and deep the shadows Stirred by no vagrant breeze. Rhythmical in the riggers, Oars with a steady shock Tell how we work like niggers For a cool in the plashy lock. And it's oh, for the neck of the camel, The ostrich, snake, giraffe! And what if to-morrow I am ill, To-day it is mine to quaff. Bother my rates and taxes! Crown me the mantling bowl; The world has gone off its axis, It's nothing but Life and Soul. To-day, like the books of the Sibyl, Is waningly dearer still, As the sunset echoes wibble From a cloud-clean saffron hill. Calm is the solemn surface Of waters that woo the skies, And tenderly calm is her face Who gazes with larger eyes At the deepening purple above her, While over her, small and white, There leans, like a courtly lover, The sweetness of all the night. All day in the sun we boated, How can I tell how far? For years in the sun we floated, For ages that yellow star Behind the poplar has trembled, And down to the wine-dark deep, While softer day dissembled The Midsummer call to sleep. And it's oh, for the neck of the camel, The ostrich, snake, giraffe, What though to-morrow I am ill, To-night I am fain to quaff.