A red nose pressed to the window-pane, The swirling dust and the threatening rain, A blue-black blight in the raw rough air, A cut-throat climate and dull despair; A tear for the days that will come no more, A dose of physic at twelve and four. And that is my Sunday afternoon In the Arctic arms of an English June. Up the Rigi. Riding up the mountain In an open car, Engine puffing bravely-- O, how high we are! Higher we are climbing, To the clouds we sail; All the world’s beneath us On the Rigi Rail. Past the slopes of verdure, Gay with gold and white, Past the crags and fissures, Up the giddy height. Torrents down below us Dashing through the vale, Snowclad peaks above us, On the Rigi Rail. Up, still up to cloudland, While the world below Shrinks to dots and pigmies Higher as we go. All around grows barren; Timid girls grow pale As the snow surrounds us On the Rigi Rail. Up at last--the summit Puffing Billy gains, And the sight that greets us Pays for all our pains. Alp on alp far stretching, Lake and plain and vale Spread in glory round us On the Rigi Rail. Nerves with joy are thrilling In that wondrous air, Ne’er did eyes enchanted See a sight so fair. Ne’er till memory falters And my senses fail Shall I forget that journey Upon the Rigi Rail. A Plea for Mercy. O, do not flog the brutal rough Who jumps upon his wife, Or in a little drunken huff Prods children with a knife. O, do not flog the brute who takes The old man by the throat And chokes him while a search he makes Of trousers, vest, and coat. O, do not flog the coward cur Who pulps a woman’s face; It cannot do much good to her, And think of _his_ disgrace. O, think of all the smart and pain If his poor hide be thin; The cat, you know, must leave a stain On mind as well as skin. O, do not flog the prowling wretch Who bashes us for pelf, But some nice kind old parson fetch, Or talk to him yourself. Present him with a kindly tract, Or pray with him awhile; Explain that skulls should not be crackt In such a shocking style. And when you’ve turned his wrath away And shown him he was wrong, Then teach him, if you’ve time to stay, Some sweet Salvation song. Far better let ten thousand such Go free to bash again, Than one should know the cat’s vile touch Or feel a moment’s pain. O, do not flog--in mercy spare The burglar’s tender hide. Though murder’s rife, what need we care? The Scripture’s on our side. Come then, ye bashing burglar crew, Put up your sweet mouths--so, And let the cranks who plead for you Return you kiss for blow.