And now I have some girls and boys Who grow, and play, and go to school; Conventional are all my joys-- I’m just like any other fool. I give off Ibsen to my wife, And quote the notes of W. A.; But still I lead a common life-- Convention _won’t_ be kept at bay. The end, of course, will come at last. Oh, may I, like Elijah, rise In something safe upon the blast, And living pass beyond the skies! When quitting earth I’d keep my breath-- I hope sincerely that I shall-- I loathe the bare idea of death, It is so damn’d conventional. Home, Sweet Home. (A WINTER’S TALE.) Through every chink there roars the blast, My stock of coals is falling fast; I have a cold that’s come to last, I’m booked until the blizzard’s past-- For home, sweet home. The fog has filled the house with gloom, The blacks lie thick in every room; Dim through the mist the gas-jets loom, And not unlike a living tomb Is home, sweet home. To devils blue I fall a prey, And sit and think the livelong day Of happier times when I was gay, In winter Edens, far away From home, sweet home. A prisoner I in climes accurst, Where fog and frost are at their worst; Hullo! What’s that? the pipes have burst! A plumber, quick! but save me first From home, sweet home! Fling wide the door and bring a light. Hi, cabman! ’Tis an awful night; Put down the glass and I’ll sit tight, But drive me from the dreadful sight Of home, sweet home. Poor horse, poor horse! Oh, spare the lash! His quivering carcass cease to thrash. He’s down! the cab has come to smash; The snow falls fast, I’ll make a dash For home, sweet home. In Portland Place. The world and wife are out of town, The blast sweeps down the empty street; The bobby in a study brown Thinks of the sea upon his beat. The cab-horse dozes on the rank, The empty ’buses cease to race; The hungry cat roams, lean and lank-- The blinds are down in Portland Place. The birds still sing in Regent’s Park, The ducks emit their bronchial quack; But all day long from dawn to dark The crossing-sweeper’s trade is slack. The Langham porter’s wand’ring eye Encounters ne’er a human face; No smoke curls upward to the sky-- The blinds are down in Portland Place. The thoroughfare is broad and wide, The vestry keeps the roadway clean, And I can walk on either side, Or ’gainst each separate lamp-post lean. I’m king of all that I survey-- As sad as Selkirk’s is my case-- Oh, soon, to save my reason, may The blinds go up in Portland Place! The Shirt Buttons. (AFTER SWINBURNE.)