Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, An attachment _à la_ Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean. Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand. And every one will say, As you walk your flowery way, “If he’s content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit _me_, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!” SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I WHEN I went to the Bar as a very young man (Said I to myself—said I), I’ll work on a new and original plan (Said I to myself—said I), I’ll never assume that a rogue or a thief Is a gentleman worthy implicit belief, Because his attorney, has sent me a brief (Said I to myself—said I!) I’ll never throw dust in a juryman’s eyes (Said I to myself—said I), Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise (Said I to myself—said I), Or assume that the witnesses summoned in force In Exchequer, Queen’s Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce, Have perjured themselves as a matter of course (Said I to myself—said I!) Ere I go into court I will read my brief through (Said I to myself—said I), And I’ll never take work I’m unable to do (Said I to myself—said I). My learned profession I’ll never disgrace By taking a fee with a grin on my face, When I haven’t been there to attend to the case (Said I to myself—said I!) In other professions in which men engage (Said I to myself—said I), The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage, (Said I to myself—said I), Professional licence, if carried too far, Your chance of promotion will certainly mar— And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar (Said I to myself—said I!) SORRY HER LOT SORRY her lot who loves too well, Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly, Sad are the sighs that own the spell Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly; Heavy the sorrow that bows the head When Love is alive and Hope is dead! Sad is the hour when sets the Sun— Dark is the night to Earth’s poor daughters, When to the ark the wearied one Flies from the empty waste of waters! Heavy the sorrow that bows the head When Love is alive and Hope is dead! THE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRY