The train de luxe from every part Brings foreigners to London; The Riviera breaks its heart, Algeria is undone. In search of sun from Southern Spain The Andalusian wanders; The Roman lolls in Drury Lane, The Turk in Holborn ponders. The world this mild December flocks To our delightful climate; Rich Russian ’gainst rich German knocks, And princeling jostles primate. The great hotels are packed and jammed, And all the trades are booming, The theatres and cafés crammed, And summer roses blooming. I dream a dream of London made A winter spot delightful; I wake from sleep, and start dismayed To find the weather frightful! No balmy breeze o’er London plays, No summer sun is shining; ’Tis not the clerk (so scandal says) But _I_ who have been dining. The Last Duke. They had taken the brightest, the nicest, the best; They had carefully sorted and sampled the rest; America’s daughters no quarter had shown, And but one Duke of Britain was blooming alone. Belgravian mothers in frenzied despair Tore out by the roots their luxuriant hair, And the maidens of Albion shuddered and sighed, And but for their eyes would have certainly cried. Every prize of the season had gone to the States, The American girls had the best of the weights; The “piles” of the pa’s and their personal charms Had proved in the battle all-conquering arms. And now but one Duke there remained to be had. He was fat, he was fifty, and said to be mad; But the belles of Great Britain to rescue him swore From the sirens who hail from Columbia’s shore. Then the belles of Columbia picked up the glove, And encouraged his grace to make desperate love; They crowded Cunarders and weighted White Stars, And descended on London in drawing-room cars. But the maidens who flirt ’neath the Union Jack At the Yankee invasion weren’t taken aback, Though it must be confessed there were exquisite types Of feminine flirts ’neath the Stars and the Stripes. The Duke stood aghast ’twixt the double array, But endeavoured to all some attention to pay. First he smiled at a Briton, then ogled a Yank, Then bolted, and hailed the first cab on the rank. He drove to the station, and, catching the train, He sailed o’er the stormy and murderous main. He landed at Calais and fell at the feet Of the first pretty French girl he met in the street. He asked for her hand, and the maiden replied, “Avec plaisir, m’sieu. Here’s a church; step inside.” They were married at once, and next day they set sail By the London and Chatham’s first outgoing mail.